The Unburdening
by subobscura
Summary: Greg and Sara draw closer during the events surrounding a traumatic case. The first night is always the hardest, or is it? Chapter 9 is posted.
1. Nina Simone Sets the Stage

Title: The Unburdening

Author: subobscura

Pairing: Greg and Sara

Rating: T, for now, mentions of violence, adult language, adult themes

Spoilers: Up to and including "Kiss, Kiss, Bang, Bang"

Archive: Ask

Reviews: Always welcomed and appreciated.

Disclaimer: Not mine. Never will be. I'm cool with that.

Preface:

Thanks to those of you who reviewed my last story, "Given Wings, We Will Fly"

I've been in a Sara and Greg mood lately, so this is the result of my thoughts on their relationship. I don't think either Sara or Greg are ready to stop bugging me yet, so I can't promise anything as this spring is pretty busy for me, but I would expect more installments. This story was inspired by an interview (sorry, I don't remember which one) where Eric Szmanda was discussing how he wanted to bring a more serious side to Greg.

Chapter 1: Nina Simone Sets the Stage

Sara walked out of the lab to take a break, breathe some of the fresh city air. The Engels case had been kicked to the curb on a technicality, and right now she wanted to scream. Children were far less safe tonight with that man back on the streets. Now it didn't even matter that they'd finally gotten the wife to roll on him. She sighed. There were some nights when she seriously considered packing it all in and going back to grad school.

She looked over to the parking lot, and was surprised to see Greg's cherry red 1988 Thunderbird sitting in a pool of sodium glare, with smoke curling out of one cracked window. She couldn't tell if anyone was in there, but decided she didn't want to deal with his wrath and peevishness if his car was on fire. Greg loved that car like a child, and even he had his limits. A bitchy Greg was equally annoying as a manic one.

Walking over, she could see now that a curly-haired someone was sitting in there talking animatedly on a cell phone held in his left hand, while his right emphasized his point by arcing a cigarette towards the windshield.

"No," Greg was saying. "No that's not what I meant and you know it. Amanda I-"

He was cut off. He listened intently for a moment, and then took a furious puff, blowing the smoke out in a harsh, straight stream through his teeth. "Fine. Fine whatever. I told you when we started dating that I work nights, that I wasn't going to change shifts or quit my job. Those were the rules. I don't know why you're so pissed. I'm the one who had a shitty day. Not like you care." He listened again. "You know what? Good. This sucks. You suck" He jerked the phone back from his ear. "Jesus! Amanda, what the he- Mandy?" He closed his phone. "Bitch," Sara heard him mutter. She couldn't help but grin at this. Greg wasn't always sweetness and light like everyone thought.

She watched as he threw his phone into the back seat and leaned back against the head rest. He closed his eyes and took a contemplative drag on the now-half-finished cigarette. Three more littered the ground by the door. Interesting. She never knew that Greg smoked. He must change his clothes or something.

She walked over to the passenger side, opened the door, and slid in. If Greg was surprised, he didn't show it. He turned his head, and slitted his eyes open to stare at her.

"Didn't know you smoked, Sanders," she said before closing the door with a bit of force. That one stuck a little.

"I don't," was his only reply.

She reached over, took the cigarette from his fingers, took a deep drag, and grinned at him like a shark before releasing the smoke in a long exhale, her pouty lips pursed as if to kiss. She handed the cigarette back to him and said, "Good. Me neither. Filthy habit and all that."

He grinned at her, but still made no effort to continue the conversation. Instead, he turned to his MP3 player and turned up the music a few notches. Radiohead. It figured. No better music to feel like beating your head against the wall.

"So," she said. "Another one bites the dust, huh?"

"Yeah," he replied. "Something like that."

She reached for his coffee cup and took a gulp, before gagging a little and swallowing heavily. "Hot!" She gasped for breath.

He laughed at her, and then said, "I make it extra hot for the ride home. Lasts longer that way before it goes cold."

"Well you could have warned me!"

"Well, you know better than to take things that don't belong to you Sidle. Here," he said reaching and taking the cup from her, brushing her fingers with his own. "Baby sips." He demonstrated then and she rolled her eyes. He just smirked at her again, then turned to the steering wheel and started playing drums along with the music.

"You're acting fairly calm for someone who just broke up," Sara remarked.

"I guess you're a good influence. No actually, she'll be calling in an hour all apologetic and all that jazz. I put up with it before, but this is just too much. She's starting to get really annoying in a not good way."

"There's a good way to be annoying?"

"You know what I mean. Anyway, I packed up all her crap today, and it's sitting by my front door. _I_ was going to break up with her nicely, but she beat me to it." He shrugged. "It's no big deal. It happens. I knew she wasn't going to last long."

Before she could stop herself, Sara asked, "Why would you date someone if you already knew it wasn't going to work out? Isn't that leading them on?"

"I don't think so. She's seeing at least one other guy besides me. She forgets that I'm trained to see things like pubes. And despite appearances, blond is not my color, nor is it hers."

"Oh, Greg, gross. TMI. Way too much information. But sorry. It sucks to find out that way."

"I don't care, I'm a one woman kind of guy, but we weren't exclusive. It was fun while it lasted and she had this great pair of-"

"Greg!"

"Glasses. I was going to say glasses."

"Yeah right. Well, I'm glad to see you're not heartbroken."

He looked at her with an odd glint in his eye, before finishing the cigarette, and opening the door to crush it under his shoe. He turned back to face the steering wheel, and punched in the cigarette lighter.

"Only one woman could ever do that, and it's definitely not Amber or Mandy or whatever her name was."

"Who, if you don't mind my asking?"

Greg turned to look at her, before turning to face the street to watch flour billow up as it was being pumped into the underground tanks at the bakery.

"Why Lois O'Neill, Miss Kiss, Kiss, Bye, Bye of course," he said finally with a leer.

Sara sighed. She wasn't sure why she was relieved. She let out a giggle. "She was something, wasn't she?"

"I thought so. A lot of people did, I guess." He continued, "You know, I really am pissed that the Engels case was thrown out. That stupid rookie cop didn't Mirandize him until they got to the station. What a clusterfuck."

"People make mistakes, Greg."

He stared at her as if she had suddenly grown a second head.

"Okay, Okay. That was really asinine. You know I'm pissed too. Nicky is going apeshit."

"I know people make mistakes, Sara. Hell, I've made enough, and I've really paid the consequences for some of them. Not checking hot plates, peeing at a crime scene. But kids are going to get hurt, because some guy didn't know the fundamentals of his job. It kills me, totally slays me." He rubbed the back of his neck thoughtfully.

"Greg, neither of those were truly your fault. Catherine didn't warn you about the chemical like she should have, and if nature had never called, you wouldn't know not to pee at a scene because you'd never asked. But it happens. Yeah, kids have to pay, and it's really terrible, but there's nothing we can do about it."

"I know that. I really do. It just doesn't make me feel any better."

"I'd be worried if it did." She took a sip, gentle this time, of his now warm-but-not-hot coffee, and smiled. "This is good, as usual. The Sumatra blend? Of course it is. You've taught me a discerning taste when it comes to the brew." She reached over and pressed some buttons on his tuner, hoping to find something easier on her ears. She paused when she came across something sultry and jazzy. "Nina Simone? I didn't know you liked to swing, Greg."

"Always." He smiled. "Seriously though, she was such a cool artist. She was a civil rights leader in her own way, through her songs. That's what I love about music, that it can really say something to the listener, in a way that words just can't." He swayed to her deep, velvet voice. "I love this song."

"What's it called?"

"Love me or leave me." He rolled his head to look her in the eyes then, before turning back and blowing a stream of smoke towards the window. "Grissom's going to hate me tonight. I'm already high on nicotine and caffeine."

"And how is that different from normal, Gregers?"

"Hey! I resemble that statement. I'll have you know I can be serious when the situation calls for it."

Sara sobered at that. That he could, be serious that is. Too serious. This previous case had brought out his lighthearted side that had been missing in action since she couldn't remember when. Maybe the explode-a-potty, but she thought he changed before that.

"I've missed you," she said at last.

"Well that's silly. I'm here every day."

"No, I mean. I've missed your humor. Your passion for the things you love. Your antics. Your crazy hair. What happened, Greg?"

He sighed. "Well, this conversation turned serious in a hurry. I don't know." He rubbed the back of his neck again. "I got blown up. I was in the hospital for a month and laid up for another three weeks. Then I had to go back to the last place in the world I wanted to be, the lab. It was making me crazy, Sara."

She was stunned. He had never been so open about his experiences after the lab explosion. Of course, she had never asked. Maybe he just needed someone, the right person, to talk to. "Tell me," was all she could think to say.

"I had second and third degree burns. It was so painful, the worst pain I've ever felt in my life, and I've had a lot of idiot-related injuries for comparison. It seared me, straight to my core, not just physically, but emotionally. A lot of the superfluous got burned away, I think."

She was saddened to hear his poetic description for his deep wounds.

"Then I had to go back to that damn lab. Full of glass and chemicals and sharp things. Grissom caught my hands shaking my first day back. I still had nerve damage that wasn't quite under control yet, but the truth is, I was scared shitless. I was checking things five and six times to make sure there were no chemical leaks, no gas leaks. I flipped out when someone violated safety procedures or left an open container out or something unlabelled. I wasn't a good boss, and I wasn't a nice person to be around anymore. Something had to give, I had to get _out,_" he finished, his vehement tone sending chills up her spine.

"I'm sorry, Greg. I can speak for myself and I think the others when I say that we had no idea it had gotten that bad."

"I know"

"You could have come to us," her soft tone betraying her sadness.

"But that's just it. I couldn't. I wasn't really part of the team then. I was just the kooky DNA guy. We were friendly sure, but we weren't friends. I just wasn't comfortable talking about it, not to you, not to anyone."

She wanted to deny it, but she couldn't lie, not to Greg. "Well, I'm here now." She reached over and touched his shoulder.

"I know. I understand. I really do." He put his hand over hers. "Don't mind me. It's just coming up on that time of year, and it's on my mind."

"Don't apologize, Greg. You're a wonderful man. Sometimes, I don't think we deserve your generosity."

He looked away, embarrassed.

"We forget a lot about you, I think. Underestimate you. Overestimate you. None of us ever think about how you were the top ranking DNA specialist in one of the best labs in the country. About how you had a fleet of techs under your command, how you carried so much responsibility. You were just there, and we depended on you, and you were so _young_. You gave up so much to work with us. You've made such amazing sacrifices. And you're going to be just as good at your new job as you were at your old one. You may not feel like it, but you show amazing promise."

He sniffed and turned his head toward the window. He rubbed his eyes and the bridge of his nose harshly, before dropping his hands back to the wheel. "Thanks," he said, and cleared his throat.

"Are you crying," she asked amazed.

"No," he said, a little defensive. "Maybe. It's just," he paused. "It's just that I don't hear that a lot. I've never felt appreciated. I know I shouldn't expect praise for doing my job, but I know I did a damn good job. Still do, just in a different way. It feels good to be noticed."

She laughed and graced him with a smile. "Believe me, I know the feeling."

He smiled at her, and said, "Yeah, I guess you do."

She was touched that her words had such an effect on him. Not that she made him cry, but that he had trusted her enough to let her see that side of him. His sardonic mask that he had adopted these last few years slipped, and she had seen his soft vulnerability. He was so much the young, unsure man she had met six years ago that her breath caught, and she was startled into awareness of his fascinating complexities. She was drawn to him now, as to a beautiful painting. She wanted to gaze deeper, find the artists' hidden meanings, the subtext.

"Thanks for listening to me." He interrupted her thoughts. "I think I really needed to talk about that."

"Oh, Greg. Anytime. Always." And she knew it was true.

The flour cloud had enveloped the car now, and in the orange light, strange shadows were cast. It was as if the car and its occupants had slipped outside of time, while the world paused for breath. She turned to look at him, and there he was looking straight back at her, into her.

She turned to face him full on, and placed her hands on his shoulders. She wasn't sure what she was doing, didn't feel completely in control of her actions. He went still, let her lead this where she would.

She leaned forward, and giving it no further thought, she brushed her lips against his, once, twice, thrice. She leaned back to look into his eyes. They were black in the dim light. She turned her head again and this time applied her lips to his with more pressure. He was sweet, a little bitter from his coffee and sticky from his chapstick, and warm, oh so warm and alive and vital. He let out a sigh through his nose, and the hint of a whimper before he sank into her, raising his hands to her back. He was returning her kiss now. He ran his tongue along her lips, before giving her a small nip. She opened to his demand, and soon they were inside each other, exploring, touching, tasting. The kiss was soft, silky, interrupted by their breathing and the silence. She ran her hands up into his hair, letting the curls slip through her fingers. His hands moved up and down her sides, exploring with firm pressure, but not straying to where he had not yet been invited.

He pulled back from her, breathing heavily. He leaned his forehead against hers, then rubbed the bridge of her nose with the tip of his, before he kissed her one last gentle time. He leaned back, and looked into her eyes. He saw no regret there, no pity. Just happiness, a little shock, and a lot of desire. Joy bubbled up in him, and he grinned.

"Wow."

"Yeah," she replied.

"Was it as good for you as it was for me?"

"Probably better."

"Sara?"

"Yeah?"

"Go out with me. One time. Just to see what might happen. If I'm totally annoying, we can I don't know, pretend it never happened. I might die, but-"

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay."

He whooped then, and she giggled. He reached into the back seat, and grabbed his fedora where it had landed when he had gotten into it with he'd-already-forgotten-bottle-blondies'-name. He plopped it on Sara's head, and she laughed her full belly laugh before giving him a dazzling smile. He started the car, listened to the purr for full effect. He gunned the engine twice before popping the clutch and shifting to reverse. The sun was coming up now, the lights in the parking lot shutting off.

"Where are we going, Greg?"

"I don't knows, Doll, but I'm sure glad you're my classy dame," he said in his best Frankie impression.

She laughed again, and they roared off, out of the parking lot and down the street.

A/N: Thank you all for reading. I hope you enjoyed reading as much as I enjoyed writing. Feedback is welcome and appreciated. I think you'll see more of these two in the future.


	2. The Pink Elephant

A/N: Hey kiddos! I'm back after a short hiatus for the muse. I have to let things simmer, ponder the scene, etc. before I put pen to paper such as it is. This is a loose continuation of the story I started in chapter 1 of "The Unburdening," called Nina Simone Sets the Stage. It looks like this is going to be a long-ish story, and I have most of it mapped out, albeit vaguely. I know what the last chapter will be, and I know (mostly) how the plot's going to proceed. Warning! Angst will ensue. There will be some graphic scenes, physical and emotional pain, some tears, but also some laughter, some friendship, some justice, and some love. I think of this as the dark, evil, trollish, ugly twin of the fabulous "Ducks in a Row" series by **singingstarrynights**, which I am plugging shamelessly, and without permission from the author herself. If you need to grin like a fool, seriously, read that series. So, enjoy the next two or three chapters, lovelies, because things are going to go downhill for our dynamic duo right quick.

Chapter 2: The Pink Elephant (Or Gil Grissom's impeccable timing)

Grissom's office door opened, and Sara backed in without looking up from her file, all the while waving a vague hand at Archie, saying, "All right, all right, Jean-Luc whatever, just get me an analysis of the gas station footage. I need it, like, yesterday. Geek," she muttered, finally looking up at Grissom. She shrugged in a sort of helpless way, and let out a long-suffering sigh. "He won't shut up about some Star Trek experience thing that just opened up. Seriously, if I ever show up dressed like Spock, please, please get me some help." She paused to take a breath. "You said you needed me for something?"

Grissom, although somewhat taken aback at Hurricane Sara, remained as stoic as ever. He didn't think the upcoming conversation would be one that he was going to enjoy. Putting his magnifying glass down, and shoving the prints from the Silverston case aside for the moment, he replied, "Yeah, close the door and have a seat."

"Uh oh," she replied. "This can't be good. Nothing good ever ensues from statements like that, at least with you." Her tone was serious and her mouth was firm, but her eyes still twinkled.

"Relax, Sara. This is good in a way. I promise."

She leaned back in her chair and gazed at him with that steady, somewhat amused expression she had taken on recently. The past few months, the past year really, she had assumed a softer appearance, become less defined around the edges. She laughed more, scowled less, and played well with others. At times, he had found her with a distracted, almost dream-like look about her. Although she always responded in the affirmative when he asked after her, he could tell she was thinking about something.

Grissom was disturbed not just by her, but by the calm that had settled after the storm that was the split shift and Nick's abduction. Now, when he had had time to assimilate Warrick's marriage, Greg's elevation to CSI status, Catherine's new position as his co-supervisor, Nick's confusing behavior in his search for resolution, Sofia's transfer to detective and Brass's subsequent accidental shooting of a fellow officer, and finally Sara's collegial attitude towards him- he found himself in the uncomfortable position of not understanding any of his colleagues. Things had been so certain before last year, almost stale and rigid. The dynamic had radically changed, and Gil could no longer fathom where he fit.

He glanced up from his musing, his blue eyes meeting Sara's brown. "I noticed that you've been a level 2 for six years now, Sara."

She snorted. "Glad to know my boss is on top of things. Isn't it your job to know stuff like that?"

"Well, yeah. You may have noticed I'm not the best at the administrative minutiae."

"I wouldn't call my promotion and subsequent pay raise _administrative minutiae_, Grissom." She was annoyed now, he could tell. Perhaps not without reason. Why was he so damn bad at this?

"You're right. I'm sorry. That was a poor choice of words. What I meant to say was that maybe- maybe I haven't been the best boss in fighting for rewards that are justly yours."

She was now the one to be taken aback at his honesty. "Okay, where's the Grissom I know? What brought on this sudden bout of conscience?"

"Actually, that's the reason I called you in here. The Washington field office of the F.B.I. has started a search for a new level 4 investigator. I know you wanted to seek out work with the Feds a few years ago. Still interested?"

Sara had stiffened in her chair, but said in a light tone, "trying to get rid of me Grissom?" She smiled her widest, fakest smile.

Undeterred, Grissom replied, "No. I would hate to lose one of the best investigators I've ever had the pleasure of working with. Be that as it may, the lab budget has no room for promotions right now, nor in the foreseeable future. You're not wasting your talents here, to be certain, but you can do better elsewhere. You'd be working on some of the hottest domestic terrorism cases, as well as federally important violent crimes. I thought it was your dream job." He shrugged. "I already recommended you to the lab director over there. I think you're ready."

She laughed, lighthearted, and not in the least bitter. "God, Grissom. Why is your timing always so amazingly shitty? No offense."

"None taken, I think."

She sprawled back into her chair, looking relaxed for the first time since the beginning of their conversation. "Look, I appreciate the vote of confidence, I really, really do. But-"

"But?"

She leaned back in the chair, and craned her neck to watch Warrick, Nick, and Greg pass by the office on the way to the break room. Warrick and Nick were carrying their kits, obviously just getting back from the field. Greg was wearing a lab coat, but looked to be taking a break to catch up with the guys. He stopped in mid-stride and mimed shooting a three pointer, then celebrated, grinning widely, in front of his imaginary and not-so-imaginary audience. Nick rolled his eyes, and Warrick looked on in cool amusement.

"-can't wait for March madness," Greg was saying. "My money's on UConn going all the way again."

"Man, you are dreaming, because Duke is going to kick some serious a-" and then they were gone down the hall.

Sara sighed and turned back to face Grissom. "I know I told you a year ago that I came to Vegas for you. And that's true, or, at least, back then it was true. I can't take those words back. But, I've realized I have a lot more here than I ever expected." She fiddled with the file in front of her. "I have a job I love, no questions asked. I have friends who've become a surrogate family in a way, almost without my noticing. The family I've never had. I have an opinionated cat who thinks very highly of herself." She grinned. "It's small, I know. But it's more than I had any right to hope for, after everything. I have stability for the first time in my life. I'm not ready to give that up easily." She laughed again, the third time in five minutes Grissom couldn't help but notice.

"Listen to me overtalking again. What is it about you that makes me do that? A simple 'no' would have sufficed."

"I'm a little surprised actually," he said.

"Why? Because I'm acting like a rational adult about all of this? I know it's hard to believe." Her words stung a little, but she smiled to take the edge off.

"It's okay, Sara. I'm glad you've found some happiness," although Grissom was as confused as ever. "I'm sure your counselor is pleased."

"Actually," she responded, "I'm willing to bypass humilty here, and say I did most of the hard work myself. I did want to thank you, though."

"For what?"

"For letting me take over mentoring Greg. You may not have realized what you were doing, but it really was the best thing for me. It got me out of my head, got me to think about what was best for someone else for once. I've had so much fun watching him grow, and he's such an awesome student. He's very easily going to best us all when he gets some more experience under his belt."

"I think so, too. He just needed to do some growing up."

"Not too much I hope," she said with a sigh.

A door slammed, and a phone rang, and all of a sudden the lab was alive around them once again. Her eyes widened, and she sat up, professional demeanor intact. "Was that all?"

"Yeah. I guess I should phone Bill, and tell him not to be expecting your resume. He'll be crushed after the way I talked you up. But," he said reaching for a case off the cold fish board, "since you're still _my_ CSI Level 2, I should find something for you to do. Here, I think this may be related to your DB tonight."

"But I'm just working on a breaking and entering."

"Oh, didn't I tell you," Grissom replied handing her the slip. "DB behind Roxie's Roadhouse. Brass phoned it in about 20 minutes ago."

"What makes you think the two cases are related?"

"Victim profile and signature match on cursory examination, according to Brass. You'll see what I mean when you examine the scene. Take Greg with you."

"Okay." She stood to leave and turned towards the door.

On impulse, Grissom spoke again, nervous. "Sara?"

She turned back towards him.

"I'm working on a beetle time series for bodies exposed to ambient temperatures around twenty five degrees C. Wanna help after shift?"

She wrinkled her nose. "Sorry, Griss, but bugs really aren't my thing. Besides I already told Greg I'd help him with advanced fingerprint analysis and lifting techniques. Maybe some other time?"

Oh how times had changed. He remembered when she used to seek him out to teach her about, well, anything.

"Lunch, sometime then, maybe?"

"Sure. You know where to find me," she said and walked out the door. She ran straight into Greg. "Oh hey, Greg. Good, I don't have to hunt you down. Listen, our coffee date's going to have to wait. We have a case."

"Oooh, tell me more," he replied suggestively after he slung a loose arm around her shoulders.

"First potential victim was a nine year old male-" The rest was lost as they left his hearing range and headed towards the locker room, heads bent close together over the file Grissom had given her.

Grissom sighed, and slumped over the Silverston prints again. His timing really did suck.

A/N: Mwahaha, and so it begins. Reviews make my world go round, and I promise I will get to replying to them within the next day or two. All of these stories, while kind of one shot, belong in the unfolding "Unburdening" universe. They will probably tie more obviously together in later chapters, but I felt like I had to take car of 'the Grissom question' for you Greg-Sara doubters out there.


	3. Pictures of Home

A/N: Thanks for the lovely reviews. Keep em' coming. More extensive notes at the end of the chapter.

Chapter 3: Pictures of Home

They staggered into Greg's apartment at ten in the morning, after processing the scene behind Roxie's for five and a half hours. Doc Robbins was backed up with clearing a pile-up on the I-10, and wouldn't be able to post their victim until the next night at the earliest. With that, Greg and Sara logged their evidence, took a short detour to the locker room, and decided to convene at Greg's place to review the cold case file in more detail. That had been the plan anyway, and it had seemed a good one at the time. Greg drove because he was more hyped on coffee, but now that his bed was less than 10 feet away, and his plushy couch less than five, he knew he wouldn't last a half hour, let alone the two they would need to do the file justice.

Next to him, Sara yawned widely, not bothering to cover her mouth.

"Nice one," Greg said.

"Whatever. You look like shit, too," Sara replied in a congenial tone.

"You're so mean to me," Greg pouted.

"I only meant it with the deepest affection, oh Greg of mine." She laid her head in his lap, stretching her legs out and sinking into the deep red leather. "Wake me when the case is solved, so I can put my name on it, too"

"Now, I know you didn't get into Harvard with a work ethic like that, Sidle."

"No, I've faked my way through my entire education and career, I promise. God, we only worked like 2 hours overtime. Why am I so tired?"

"Because thinking about my manly charms has been keeping you up at nights, of course."

"Of course."

Greg grinned. Nothing had happened since their kiss in the parking lot a week ago, but Greg was a patient man. They had been buried under work, and had had staggered nights off, so there had been little time for anything except the usual pleasantries and a few extremely suggestive glances between the two of them. Lifting his head off the couch, he glanced down at her fondly and said,

"Well, I don't know about you, but the only two things on my mind right now are food and sleep, and sleep is winning by a wide margin."

"Those are the only two things on your mind," she asked, quirking an eyebrow.

"How long have you known me? My mind's always in the gutter. But sadly, I'm not _up_ for anything between the sheets right now, except for catching some Z's. Check back in a few hours though."

"I may just do that."

At that, Greg choked a little on the swig of water he had just taken, and coughed. Sara just grinned. It was rare that she was the one to render him speechless.

"Alright, sleepy." He stood up, earning a small sound of protest from Sara. "Time to go to bed." He pulled her upright and off the couch, finally putting his arm around her and leading her towards the short hall that led to his bedroom.

"Greg, I can't steal your bed," she protested. "I'll just drive home."

"Ah, that's where you're wrong, m'lady. Your car isn't here, I'm not driving anymore, and you're not touching my T-Bird. No offense, but I've seen the way you drive. Besides, who said anything about you stealing my bed?" Sara frowned at the idea of sleeping on his couch, even if it was comfortable. "We're going to share."

"Oh. Am I dreaming?" She had a dazed look on her face, and a small furl had taken residence between her eyebrows.

He let out a short laugh at her confusion, and took a gentle hold of her arm leading her once again to his lair.

When he opened the door and they stepped in, she looked around. Although they had hung out at his place quite a few times over the past couple of years as they'd grown closer, she'd had no occasion to see his bedroom. Greg thanked the powers that be that he'd cleaned the place up in anticipation of her visit in the near future. He didn't know why he cared. She'd seen the place a wreck before, and god knows he didn't stand on ceremony. But, it felt like the right thing to do.

On one wall, a Norwegian flag was tacked with care and precision, not a wrinkle to be seen. Surrounding the flag were framed professional looking photographs. One was of a coastal village taken from the water, with a snow capped mountain in the background. Another was of what looked like an old church, and a third was of a field of rocks and wildflowers with more mountains in the background. A bookcase took up most of another wall, lined with everything from Zumdahl's "Introduction to Inorganic Chemistry" to D.H. Lawrence's "The Rainbow." His desk was pushed up against the wall, with a window behind it that looked on the street, although his blackout drapes were drawn. His headboard, dresser, desk, bookcase and frames were all of the same rich, dark wood. On the queen-sized bed was a white down comforter with red pillowcases, while a sleek black torch-lamp stood in the corner. Overall, the look may have been overwhelmingly masculine were it not for the soft warm glow from the lamp and the homey aesthetic the bookshelves and pictures provided. As it was, it presented a contradiction in terms, which was not surprising for Greg.

Greg walked to his dresser and took out a pair of sweats with 'Stanford' stamped on the ass and an old Sevendust tee-shirt. He threw them to Sara, and pointed to the adjoining bathroom. She complied with his silent command without saying a word. For himself, Greg just stripped off everything but his undershirt and boxers, throwing the whole pile in the general direction of the closet. He'd deal with it later. He didn't want to scare Sara by showing too much skin, although he usually slept in the buff.

While he was waiting for her, he sat down at his desk and checked his email for the last time that day. Nothing but spam, and a short email from one of his college buddies asking about their next surfing trip. He turned off the monitor and listened to the toilet flush and water running. He hoped Sara wasn't using his toothbrush. That was definitely a deal-breaker in his opinion.

He propped his elbows on the desk, and leaned his face into his hands. He sighed and ran his hands though his hair. He didn't want Sara to know, but processing that scene earlier had left him shaken. The image of the small boy lying naked on his side on the cracked asphalt save for a pair of Scooby-Doo underwear had imprinted itself on his brain. His skin had looked so pale in that alleyway, the white making him look angelic amidst the rats and trash and grime. He didn't understand why this victim bothered him so, but he supposed you never got used to cases involving children.

Just then, Sara emerged from the bathroom. He looked up with a small smile, and then stood to slip around her and brush his teeth. When he was done, he stepped out and turned off the lamp. Despite his best efforts, a few rays of gray light seeped around the curtains, leaving the room not quite dark. Sara was already lying on her back on the side farthest away from him, looking rather stiff. Her eyes were closed, but Greg could tell that she wasn't sleeping from her breathing.

He slipped between the cool sheets on the other side, arranging the covers so his feet stuck out. He couldn't stand when they got hot while he was sleeping. He sunk down into the pillow with a sigh. He turned to face his female companion, and decided not to dwell on the fact that this was the first time he had lured Sara Sidle into his bed, and the circumstances were not at all what he had imagined. Sara was frowning again. One corner of his mouth lifted in a smile.

"Relax, Sara. I won't bite. At least not while you're sleeping." She chuffed out a laugh and turned to face him. He could barely make out her face in the dim light.

"Sorry. This is a little weird."

"Well, we have to start somewhere, right?"

"Yeah, I guess so." She smiled widely, showing the gap between her front teeth. "We are starting something, aren't we?" Their voices were low, hushed. Already lover's voices.

Greg brought his hand up to brush a curl behind her ear, and ran the backs of his fingers in a gentle sweep across her cheek. "I think so," he said. "I hope so." He sighed. "I've wanted this, wanted _you_, for a long time you know."

He looked into her eyes, which appeared like burnished onyx. "I know. Thank you for waiting," she said simply. He liked that she offered no explanations. He didn't want to hear about Grissom, and she didn't want to talk about him. She was here now, and that's all that mattered to him.

He leaned into her space, and placed a cool, virtuous kiss on her lips. She responded in kind, raising her hand from under the covers to run once, twice through his hair. They tasted of mint and sleep.

"We should rest now," he said. She nodded, and he returned to his side of the bed, but took hold of her hand and left them clasped between their bodies.

"Goodnight, Sara. I'll dream about you."

"Goodnight, Greg. Only good things I hope."

"Always, dear-one."

Within minutes, their breathing had deepened and evened out, one matching the other unconsciously. They slept while the world moved on without them. And they dreamed.

A/N: And now, my dear ones, I am off to bed as well. I hope you enjoy the update.

General notes:

So I decided to get moving on an actual plot this time around. I'm excited, because this is the first time in any fandom I've attempted to write a case-file, and I'm looking forward to the challenge of integrating technical detail with Greg and Sara's developing and already complicated relationship. There are a few things from the show which I've decided are continuity errors, and am going to ignore. In 'Playing With Fire,' Sara's badge says she's a level three. Since we haven't heard about a promotion for her (except the one she was passed over for), and she came to Vegas as a level two, I'm going with the latter. In '4X4,' there are no scars on Greg's back. I don't think anything requiring the extensive hospitalization implied from the explosion would leave him without a mark, so this too was just stupid on the part of the directors. And in watching the commentary from 'Sparks of Life,' I was disappointed that there was no mention of Greg's burns and experiences. I think something like that where he was so obviously left with PTSD would impact how he approached the case of the burn victim. While I think Eric Szmanda tried to portray Greg in that light, nothing in the episode specifically focused on that aspect. Too bad, so sad. In my CSI world, characters are actually affected by their experiences.


	4. I've got dreams to remember

The Unburdening

Author: subobscura

Rating: M, for sexual situations. I'm not your mother, hell I'm not that much older than you and I read this stuff when I was your age. But please, if you're younger than 17 and reading this, make sure I don't know about it.

See first chapter for full headers.

A/N: Okay, okay. So I suck, and have been on an almost month-long hiatus. Well, I'm back. This chapter gave me fits, because I couldn't figure out where Greg and Sara wanted this to go. And real life intervened for a bit. Then Ren & Stimpy and Buddy Guy helped me out with some inspiration. Yes. You heard me correctly. Rating has gone up. I was going to name this 'Greg and Sara get...'Well, nevermind. That would be crass. But you'll see. Oh, the chapter title is from a new release by Buddy Guy, of the same name. Check it out.

"I've Got Dreams to Remember"

Greg sat up in bed that night, chest heaving, pulling in great sucks of air like a drowning man. He could still feel the creeping thing drawing closer, pushing behind him, lurking in the shadows. It had been upon him, almost, but Greg couldn't remember what it was. Just that it had stolen all the light.

At some point, he had stripped off his undershirt, though now he felt cool and damp. He struggled out of the covers and groped blindly for it in the now pitch dark. His side of the bed was in shambles. Apparently, Greg had put up a good fight, though it looked as if the comforter was the victor. He was almost surprised to see Sara there, sleeping on as though all was peace in the world, though he wasn't sure how that was possible.

She lay on her stomach, facing away from him toward the window, where orange light from the street-lamps was now beginning to reach around the curtains. They had migrated away from each other during sleep, each preferring the autonomy afforded by staking out territory on his large mattress. Sara had still ended up with almost two thirds of the bed, using her long limbs to her advantage. Greg spared her one last glance, before heading to the bathroom. Technically, shift didn't start for another six hours, but Greg was done with sleep.

Standing in the bathroom in front of the mirror, he ran a hand through his sweat slick hair. His gel had given up, and the waves were now more pronounced. He looked hollow-eyed. He splashed some water on his face, and then groped in the medicine cabinet for some Tylenol, wincing when the bottle fell into the sink, rattling around and spilling some white pills in protest, some of which headed down the drain. Greg picked out two and slid the rest of the survivors back in the bottle. He swallowed them with a mouthful of water from the tap.

Pulling the bedroom door closed behind him with a soft snick, Greg went to the coffee table in the living room and scooped up the case file, which had grown thick in the past week. John Doe 83, aged 8 years, laying on the autopsy table with shocking black ligature marks around his neck, stared back him with a baleful, accusing expression. Who needed sleep when they had this to wake up to, Greg thought with a grim smile.

He pulled out three day old General Tso's surprise, and sat down at the table to review the trace evidence that had just started rolling in from their scene a week ago.

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Sara found him 45 minutes later asleep on top of Beierman's _Pedophilia: Biosocial Demensions _slumped in one of the stools of his pub set. One of the ear buds of his iPod had slipped out, and Sara could hear tinny blues leaking out. Over in the living room, the television was set low, with some kind of rat thing talking to some kind of cat/ squirrel thing.

"Steeeeeeeeempy," the rat thing was saying. "What would I eeever do without you, man?"

"Oh Ren," the squat replied.

Sara just rolled her eyes. She walked over to the set and turned it off. Moments like these made her wonder why she was contemplating dating an adolescent. Greg stirred behind her and rubbed his eyes.

"Hey, I was watching that paragon of cinematic virtue," he said.

"Sure, Greg. Just like you were making vast headway on our case, there. You, um, drooled a little, right there," she said pointing at a spot on her face. Greg swiped at his chin, and finding nothing, turned fully to scowl at her 10 ft. away.

"Liar."

"Maybe." She looked at him. In the half-light from the fixture above his stove, with his irregular features and wavy hair, the boy-man looked impossibly handsome. "What you going to do about it, Mr. Sanders?"

A familiar gleam came into Greg's eyes. He recognized an invitation to play when he heard one. He stood and started stalking towards her, feigning stealth. Sara for her part, stood her ground. She looked him over, recalling an awkward shower scene, and now reveled in the opportunity to openly stare at his bare legs. Her gaze traveled up those long legs to his basketball shorts to his slim torso and swimmers shoulders outlined in a plain white undershirt. She was almost surprised when he pounced on her, grinning because he had noticed her staring.

She squealed when he started tickling her, then laughed out loud. He bent his head to her exposed neck and nipped her lightly before giving her a sloppy lick, then ran his stubble along the afflicted area. He threw his arms around her waist to keep her still. Her laughter shifted to a drawn out moan.

"Oooh," he said, "I think Sara Sidle likes me."

"Shut up, Greg. Do you want to go to bed?"

"What? But we just came from there," he said with a puzzled frown. "Oh. _Oh. _Well, then, m'lady, follow me." They walked back into the bedroom arm in arm.

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They stood facing each other, slashed by the light pooling in stripes from between the venetian blinds. Greg had opened the drapes and the window to let the cool, dry desert wind sweep in around them.

Greg hesitated, brought a hand to her face, and said, "I have to ask, Sara. Are you sure? 'Cause after this you're stuck with me."

She looked at him then. Remembered the boy he had been dancing and head banging around his lab. Recalled his multicolored shirts, his ever evolving hairstyles, his grand lectures on pop music. Saw in her minds eye facing him over results and facing off in arguments, relived him wincing away from a carelessly placed hand on his shoulder the week after he got back from medical leave and remembered his strong embrace after a marathon, after he passed his pre-lims. She smiled warmly, and realized she had grown up with him as much as he had her. "I'm sure Greg," she said with no hesitation. "It's time."

"Okay," he said, and stepped into her kiss. Without shoes, he was slightly taller than her, and angled his lips down to meet hers. He pulled her to him with one arm around her waist and the other buried in her hair. It wasn't like he expected, this truly intimate kiss, like tides crashing, but like rain on glass. Graceful, tentative, and so soft. His heart expanded and he held the universe in his arms.

She backed up and he followed, until her knees hit the back of the bed. Breaking their embrace, she reached around him and pulled up his tee-shirt while he helped by lifting his arms. Then he reached out to her and she noticed his hands were shaking. She caught them in her own. "Greg," she said and his heart faltered. "Greg," she repeated and he looked into her eyes. "Relax." He breathed in through his nose once, twice, and then was calm. Instead of replying he reached around her and pulled up her/ his tee-shirt. Then he untied her sweats and because they were big on her, they pooled to her ankles. He marveled at his marble beauty, his Venus de Milo come to life.

He stared at her, traveling from her brunette curls tousled from sleep, to her round firm breasts that still sat high on her chest to her slim waist and the small triangle of hair that marked the apex of her legs that wet on forever to her feet whose toenails were painted with silver.

"God, Sara" he said, placing a hand over her heart. "You're gorgeous," he let out on a breath. "Just like I knew you would be, only better."

She flushed and looked away. Then she looked back, into his hazel eyes. "Greg, make love with me, please. I've wanted you for so long, now."

He gently lowered her onto the bed, and fell beside her in a cloud of down comforter. Lifting up on one elbow, he gazed down at her from above. He ran a finger from the hollow of her throat down her sternum to circle her navel before tracing the soft skin of her groin. "Open your legs for me, dear one. I want to see everything." She slowly complied, letting her knees fall open. Her eyes were closed, and he could see her chest rising and falling in easy breaths.

Deciding he needed a different angle, Greg quickly shucked off his shorts and then crawled to kneel between her legs. Her breaths were coming faster now, feeling his movements. Ever so slowly, he lowered himself on top of her, keeping his weight on his knees and elbows. Shifting to one arm, he ran his palm lightly over one nipple, then the other, teasing them to hardness. Then he fully cupped one breast in his hand before pinching with just a little pressure. He moved to take the other in his mouth, laving his tongue over the bud before sucking and ending with a little nip. Sweet. Sara moaned, and he was delighted to find she was sensitive to foreplay. He continued on this way for some minutes, detouring to pepper kisses on her collar bones, her sternum, her stomach.

Gliding his hands down her belly, he dipped his thumb in her belly button and she smiled. She jumped when he lightly traced his fingertips over the terrain he just covered.

"Sorry," she said, squinching up her nose. "Ticklish."

"Good to know," he replied.

"Greg," she whined. "You're so evil."

"Damn straight," he said. "I'm going to do evil, evil things to youmph." The last part was cut off now that he was back to kissing her, this time marking a trail up her inner thigh. Sara smiled but tensed as she felt him approaching her sex. Instead of his tongue then, she felt his finger lightly brush her folds before parting them. Then he used the flat of his palm to massage her with firm pressure. She moaned and arched a little off the bed. He dipped his fingers near her opening before running them up to her clit to circle the bud once, twice.

"Wow, Sara, you're so wet for me, already." He smiled a bright grin at her. "You have no idea how much that turns me on." He reached for her hand and brought it to his hot, silken erection.

Sara opened her eyes, and saw that heartbreakingly familiar expression and felt him in her hand. This was Greg Sanders making her feel wanton, so incredibly beautiful. And then she saw his gaze as he continued to give her pleasure, his intense concentration like she was his most valuable piece of evidence, his happiness as she moaned and writhed beneath him. He slipped one, then two fingers into her and started a slow rhythm, stretching her so she would be ready for him. Her legs fell fully apart and she didn't care that she seemed to have lost all restraint. To him, she was the most beautiful woman in the world, his Helen for whom the Greeks wept, and she could see this in his clear shining gaze.

"God, Greg," she let out on a half sob. "Please now. Please, I want you now."

Greg, feeling she was ready, opened the drawer to his nightstand and brought out a condom and some lube.

"Let me," she said. She sheathed him and applied the lube before pumping him slowly. Greg bit his arm and groaned to which she only smiled.

Then he knelt between her legs once more, and without hesitation, he positioned himself at her entrance and pushed slowly in. They both gasped, and then he was all the way in and then they were skin to skin together with her legs wrapped around his waist finally. She circled her arms around his smooth neck and put her hands on his back feeling the spiderweb-fine scars that she had barely seen before and held onto him feeling full so full and tight and let his heat seep into her. They were together, and he asked, "Are you okay?" and then he kissed her hard and deep and when he let go she nodded into his neck feeling his soft brown stubble. Then he pulled back and pushed in again and they were moving together in concert, a streetlight adagio.

"Sweet Sara, sweet Sara," he sighed. He leaned up to grant her room, and implored, "Touch yourself for me." Not thinking only acting she responded and moved her slender hand to pleasure herself while Greg moved in and out of her and one of his hands was back at her breast. And she rose higher and higher and higher while Greg stayed steady in her until finally at last she broke the surface of the waters splashing into the sunlight gasping for air and saying his name. Greg felt her life pulse and ripple around him and he thrust into her once twice three times a trinity to bless their union and gasped calling Sara Sara Sara. Joy bloomed fleetingly between them like desert flowers after the winter rains.

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Later, after they had calmed, Greg lay beside her, running a hand from breast to flank in steady long strokes, making her sleepy. The wind came through the window rattling the shade slightly, and traffic hummed by on the street below. Next door, the neighbors were watching "Who Wants to be a Millionaire?" and the whole building smelled like stir-fry.

"That was beautiful," he said. "Like music to my soul."

"A high compliment from you," she responded but he could hear the warmth and gratitude in her voice.

"Yeah, well, don't get used to it," he said.

"And there goes the kodak moment."

"Hey, I have a manly reputation to protect."

"Ha!" She turned to him. "A tendency to overstate the facts. One of the many facets of your personality I love."

"You love me?"

Her gaze softened and she ran a hand down his face to cup his chin before kissing him. "Of course I do."

"Ha! I knew it! Sara Sidle loves me! For the record, I love you too."

They quieted and listened to the Vegas night wake up, falling into a light slumber and reveling in the heat radiating between them.

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Later, with his arm slung over her waist and breathing into her hair, Greg spoke into the dark. "I have a theory about the case. I think those boys weren't random. I think they're connected, and their murders have ritualistic overtones."

Sara sighed and turned to him. "No rest for the weary. Alright Greggo. I'm going to go take a shower. Alone," she added when she saw him perk up. "Make me some coffee, and we'll hash out this theory of yours."

"Well, they're not so much theories, as ideas. But you're the boss, boss."

A/N: And so ends our fourth chapter. I hope you all enjoyed this latest installment. Phew, is it warm in here? Read and review. This was written between the hours of three and five in the morning, so any errors are purely the result of a deluded mind. Sorry for the length, but this story just is what it is.


	5. I'm starting to fashion an idea

Title: The Unburdening

Author: subobscura

See first chapter for complete headers.

A/N: Okay folks. This is where the ball really gets rolling plot-wise. Thanks for all your great reviews. Be looking for part two sometime tomorrow. We'll be getting some second-hand Nick angst, some major Greggo angst, some Greg and Sara fluff, and a partial break in the case. I would put up both parts tonight, but damn I'm tired. I haven't slept in four days, but I still wrote this up for you guys. Aren't I nice? You should reward such dedication with yummy fluffy reviews.

_I'm starting to fashion an idea in my head- Part 1 of 2_

Grissom walked into the break room that night, only to find Greg and Sara sharing a half eaten bag of Doritos.

"Mmm," Greg was saying. "Nothing like neon radioactive orange cheese to hit the spot." He paused to take a swig of his coke. "So anyway, worst blind date had to be the time I dated that blond chick who, when asked about her hobbies, said watching Lifetime television for women."

"Ha, she didn't." Sara licked her fingers. "Man, even if that is your hobby, you don't _say _that." She reached for another chip and yelped when Greg smacked her hand.

"Gross, Sara. That's like, double dipping or something. I don't want your cooties."

She arched an eyebrow at him. "You have absolutely no room for complaint."

He coughed and colored slightly. "Yeah, well, um, anyway, I was horrified to find out that when I asked her about her favorite bands, she listed soundtracks. Disney soundtracks. Needless to say, there wasn't a second date." He sighed. "Sometimes it's hard to be so awesome."

"Greg, your hobbies are watching the Cartoon network, dyeing your hair, and downloading bootlegged copies of _I Love the 80's_."

"Yeah, so? Those are all awesome. Plus I do kickboxing, meditate on surfing, and go bouldering."

"Really? I haven't seen you do any of those things."

He watched with dismay when she reached over and gulped down some of his coke. "That's because my girlfriend has been keeping me busy lately. Damn honey-do list."

It was Sara's turn to cough this time before letting out an unfeminine belch. "Ooops, sorry," she said. She shrugged when Greg made a face at her. "I only drink this crap when I'm with you. Does anything actually get done on that honey-do list?"

"Sometimes," Greg said in a grudging tone. He brightened and smiled at her. "She's really bossy."

"Maybe it's because you need to be kept in line."

"Whatever. Hey Grissom, what's on the table tonight?"

Grissom, who had been watching this exchange with a mixture of horror, rising hope, amusement, and annoyance was finally left feeling confused. He had been certain they were dating, but now their words belied that conclusion. He studied their body language in hopes of discerning the truth. There was nothing improper about the way they were sitting. But there. Did Greg's hand just swipe her knee? Was Sara's foot positioned between his? Was Greg leaning into her just a little too much for just friends? He realized they were staring at him expectantly. He was flustered, but he covered his discomfort with a wave of his hand and said, "If you two are done flirting now, Greg, would you update me on your current case?" They had the decency to turn a little red.

Greg cleared his throat. "Right, um, sure. Well, as you know we have two vics, males, one blond, one brunette, both aged approximately 8 to 9 years according to Doc Robbins, from tooth eruption and maturation of the epiphyses. Very little trace evidence, a few carpet fibers of a brand used in most American makes. We're thinking they were killed elsewhere, and driven to the sites. For what purpose is anyone's guess. The fibers between sites match, as does the killer's signature leading us to believe that these homicides are linked. Both are dressed in new, unused spiderman underpants available at any Wal-Mart, Target, or K-Mart between here and Timbuktu. They were positioned on their right sides in an alleyway with low light, knees pulled up, palms together like in prayer. Cause of death has been ruled strangulation by ligature, which we know was piano wire. The ligatures were left at the scene. I already personally checked them for epithelials, but I got nada." He took a deep breath.

"ID's?"

Sara interjected, "Ran their prints through IAFIS and their DNA through CODIS, but not surprisingly, there were no hits. I'm going through county files, but some of them date back a few years. There's nothing that even says they were even from the greater Las Vegas metropolitan area. I also put out a national bulletin and have been checking missing person's, but I haven't gotten any bites. It's slow going, but I haven't given up yet." She shrugged. "It's like looking for a needle in a haystack, especially if there's no one out there who cares that they're gone."

"Well, tonight, you're not going to have to slog through files. We've got a body up a chimney in Laughlin. Firefighters just called it in. Take Nick with you."

Sara stood and took the slip, reaching also for the bag of Doritos. Greg snatched it away. "I don't think so missy. I bought these with my hard earned money. Go eat your tofutti-rice dreamsicles or something."

She stuck out her tongue before sauntering to the doorway. She turned back and said, "You're going to pay Sanders, big time." She walked out the door to get her kit and find Nick.

He called after her, "I'm counting on it!" He turned back to Grissom. "So what do you have for your favorite new CSI tonight?"

"You're my only new CSI, Greg. I want you on those ID's. Over the past twenty years or so, a grass roots program called Ident-a-kid has been issuing an identity card to children at participating schools. On that card? A fingerprint. I want you to contact the company and see if you can get a match. It's a long shot, I know, but it's the largest database of children's prints that we have. Otherwise, you're on call in case something else comes in."

"This isn't a priority case? This seems like a serial to me if there ever was one," Greg remarked, surprise evident in his tone.

"Oh believe me, this has serial written all over it. But right now, you have absolutely zero. I'm not saying stop, in fact I want you to work on this as much as you can, but aside from identifying the vics, there's little else that can be done now. Remember Greg, serial cases are marathons, not sprints. These cases can take years to solve. Right now, neither the press nor the feds have caught wind. Work as hard as you can while the pressure is low."

Greg nodded. "I get it." He turned to the files that were already spread out on the table. "Oh, hey Griss. There's something else."

Grissom turned from heading back to his office. "What," he asked, peering over his glasses.

"These kids. Well, they show evidence of long-term sexual abuse. Scarring indicates multiple instances of forced sodomy, perhaps over a period of months or years. No indication of whether it's directly related to the homicide, though. And no semen"

"Both have it? It's related then." Grissom appeared thoughtful. He pulled in a breath. "It may be how he chooses them. Or it may be the killer has been abusing them. Too early to make any judgement calls." He noticed Greg had a faraway look in his eye. He looked pale under the harsh fluorescent lights, with deep rings under his eyes. "Greg?"

"Huh?"

"You doing okay?"

"What? Oh, yeah. Just haven't been sleeping all that well."

Grissom tightened his gaze a little and pursed his lips. "Your first child sexual abuse case is always rough. Couple that with your first serial…don't take it too close to heart, Greg. You'll burn out before you've even started."

Greg gave a tight nod before spreading his hands over the photos. He looked up, and the tension was gone from his face. He grinned. "It's cool. My girlfriend just likes it rough."

Grissom rolled his eyes before walking out of the room towards his office.

A/N: Loved it? Hated it? I know, I know, no sex. But, alas, this isn't going to be one of those Greg and Sara have explicit sex in every chapter kind of stories. Give me a smut challenge and I'll be happy to comply though…Oh, chapter title is from Dashboard Confessional's So Impossible EP, song called "For You to Notice." If you haven't heard of these guys, you've been living under a rock. I know, a little conventional, but what can I say, I was feeling nostalgic. Plus it fit. Go listen to it. Oh Ident-a-kid exists as does Miss-I-Watch-Lifetime in my spare time.


	6. Convergence

The Unburdening

Author: subobscura

See first chapter for full headers

_I'm starting to fashion an idea- Part 2 _(Convergence)

A/N: I bought myself season 3 today as an I-got-in-to-grad-school present, so I was inspired!

Inspirational music for this chapter courtesy of Phish. P.S. If you people don't start reviewing, a MAJOR character is going to bite the dust in the next chapter. P

Greg found Sara in the locker room shrugging on a jacket to ward off the early morning chill. He called softly to her and she turned and smiled at him.

"Hey yourself. You 'bout ready to head out?"

"Yeah," he replied. "Just let me change my shoes and jacket and we're outta here. For once, we're leaving on time. Man, I'm beat. My eyes feel like they're ready to fall out of my head." He turned to his open locker and threw in his blazer followed by anonymous brown shoes number 1 and 2. Then he put on his black and white Pumas and a zip-up hoodie. He looked exactly like an undergrad on his way to an 8 AM. Sara found she was becoming less and less disturbed by this youthful transformation. Standards were relative when you were dating someone this hot.

"Were you on those ID's all day," she asked.

"Nah, just the last three hours really." He rolled his eyes. "A trick roll came in right after you left, so that took up the first half of shift. Processed the evidence, pretty open and shut. _Then _I was on those ID's. Pretty unglamorous day in the life of a CSI."

"Yeah, I totally had you beat. Nick, Cath, Warrick, and I had that chimney case today. Cath is tying up loose ends with Sidley and Martin right now."

"I heard about that. Not one, but two bodies down a chimney."

"It was right up your alley. Very Edgar Allen Poe."

"I'm jealous. Mine was very J. Edgar Hoover. Men in ladies underwear and endless file-keeping. Why don't you tell me about it while I drive you to my place?"

"You _still _won't let me drive the T-Bird?"

"Hey, you may be the boss of me while we're working, but that T-Bird is all mine, baby. Mr. Liu's?"

"Of course. Lead the way."

Greg wrapped an arm around her waist as they walked out to the car.

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He fiddled with the radio while Sara watched a young honeymooning couple dash into a bar across the street. The girl was wearing a pink veil headband and the guy was wearing a tuxedo jacket with tails over his t-shirt and shorts. They were on the "Just-got-hitched Vegas Pub Crawl" then. She sighed. She'd seen it all before. Greg noticed her stare, but made no comment. They were stopped at an especially long light just outside of the shopping center where Mr. Liu's was located.

"Hey, did you notice anything off with Nick today?" His voice interrupted her thoughts.

"I don't know. How so?"

"He just seemed, I dunno, out of it. He was doing Video Spectral Analysis to pull up the Sidley kid's identity on that gym card, and he was screwing it up. I had to help him out with the wavelengths. It was weird. I mean, I'm a CSI 1, he's supposed to be teaching me that stuff."

"Huh, well, you've done a lot of that over the years. Maybe he's just not as experienced with that particular technique as you are."

"Maybe," was his non-committal reply. He reached over to the dash and picked up his sunglasses, slid them on his nose to shade his eyes from the morning glare. Then he popped a piece of nicorette into his mouth.

Surprised, she asked, "You trying to quit?"

"Not really, although I'm not that strongly addicted. I need the nicotine. I want to stay up and work on the John Doe case a little more. I can't help but feel we're missing something excruciatingly obvious. Grissom thinks it's a serial."

"I hear you there. Clearly it is." He turned into the parking lot and drove smoothly into a space. He turned the engine off and listened to the tick of the engine.

He sighed. "I don't know, Sara. I have a bad feeling about this case. Really bad."

She turned to look at him, but she couldn't see his eyes that well behind his purple shades.

"I know Greg. Me too. But we'll get to the bottom of it." She slid a hand around his neck and into his hair.

He leaned over and gave her a quick kiss on the temple. "Let's go get some food. Oh, do you think we can talk to Nick tomorrow, maybe find out what's bothering him?"

She nodded, although she wasn't convinced that anything in particular was bothering him, that is, nothing more than normal.

"Coolies." He got out of the car and slammed the driver's side door. It was then that she realized he hadn't agreed with her about getting to the bottom of things.

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They were sitting on the bed in his room looking at the photos from the first two scenes. If they didn't find something on their killer soon, there would probably be another soon to follow. Sara was sitting cross legged wearing a "Vote for Pedro!" t-shirt (Greg's of course) and a black thong. Greg was bare chested wearing his Stanford sweats. Sara was looking at pictures of the scenes themselves and Greg was looking at close-ups of the bodies. So far, nothing was jumping out at them.

"Here," Greg said, feeding her a piece of broccoli over her shoulder with a pair of chopsticks. He was soft, white, ethereal in the golden glow of their false and intimate night. The file was spread out all over the bed while they looked for elusive connections. She loved moments like this, the soft domesticity of their burgeoning relationship clashing with the hard edges of their job. These odd emotional intersections were beginning to grow on her.

As he turned away, Greg glanced at the photos spread before her, one of Roxie's back wall and one of the wall of the tenement behind which the first boy had been found. The picture slid a little more into focus.

"Sara, look at this."

"Huh?" She was startled out of the torpor that had begun to overtake her.

"The graffiti here," he pointed, "and here. They match." On the first wall scrawled in tight purple spray were the words **Love is Patient**. On the second, in red, **Love is Kind**. Both messages were almost lost in the tangle of gang symbols and cryptic sayings left behind by the residents of the run-down neighborhoods.

"Oh my God, Greg. We're so dumb. How did we miss this? Good catch by the way. He's sending us messages. But what do they mean?"

Greg looked away for a moment. "Paul's letter to the Corinthians. It's from the Bible. What it means, I'm not sure." He shrugged.

"How do you know about the Bible," she asked with a curious tilt to her eyebrow.

He looked embarrassed for a moment. "I was raised Methodist. Now I'm a Unitarian. I try to go to a service at least once every few weeks."

"You're a believer?"

"In the Christian God? No. I guess you could call me a faithful agnostic. I'll take you to a service sometime if you want. It's more like a discussion on issues of faith from open-minded people of all faiths. I think even an atheist could get something out of it."

"I've never really thought about it before. I'll go because it's important to you." He smiled. "You keep on surprising me every day Greggo." Her tone was soft, gently admiring. He blushed and looked away.

Sara turned back to the pictures. "We're going to have to go back to the scenes. Look for more messages. See if any trace was caught in the paint, or even if we can trace the paint itself." She looked at the clock on the nightstand. It was already 11 in the morning. "Let's sleep until 5, and try to get there while we have good light. The scene's sat this long, it can wait a few more hours." Greg nodded. He was really exhausted. As Sara crawled around on the bed gathering papers and photos, he looked speculatively at her black thong. As it turned out, they didn't get to sleep until noon. What they missed, underneath the second message hidden in shadows, was a third message. **SOON**.

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Greg gasped and shot straight up, throwing Sara off him, who'd been sleeping on his shoulder. His heart was pounding, and he immediately realized that he was going to be revisiting his shrimp lo mein. He staggered out of bed, startling Sara's cat Sadie who gave a loud yowl of protest and gave a swipe at her unexpected attacker.

He ran into the bathroom throwing on the light and fan, before retching with huge gasps and groans into the toilet bowl. Cold sweat poured off his brow, and the spasms seemed to go on for five minutes or longer. When his stomach unclenched, he sat back against the tub, feeling the cold white bathroom tiles digging into his ass. As he calmed, he realized Sara's hand was on his shoulder. Next to him was a bottle of Evian. He reached over and choked down the first quarter of the bottle, feeling its cool slide into his stomach. He felt vulnerable, sitting sick and helpless and nude on his bathroom floor.

"Thanks," he said, in a sandpaper-rough voice.

"Are you sick? Do you need me to take you to the doctor?" Sara stood in a red silk knee-length robe. She handed him his sweats, which he quickly stepped into.

He ran a hand through his sweaty waves.

"No, no. Just give a minute." He leaned over and put his hands on his knees. Sucking in a breath, he said, "bad dream."

"Must have been some dream. Do you want to talk about it?"

"Yeah, yeah, I think I do."

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They sat sipping coffee on Greg's red leather couch in the living room. Sadie, Sara's Siamese that she had gotten from Doc last year sat sunning herself in a pool of molten sun, which warmed the room and provided safe natural lighting. It was 4:15, which they had called close enough.

"So," Greg said.

"So," Sara echoed.

He gave a shuddering breath. "That was the worst dream I've ever had." He looked over at her with a slight sly grin. "I much prefer the ones starring you, my lady love." He turned serious again. "I'm not sure where to start." He took a sip of Blue Hawaiian.

"The beginning usually works pretty well."

"Well, I don't remember all of it. I was me, but, also," he paused. "Not me. I was younger, I think. A kid. I was walking home from school, back in New York. There were these guys, they were older, cooler. I wanted to hang out with them, and today, they finally decided they would let me. They bought me a drink, a soda, and I was so proud, because I was hanging out with the cool high school guys and my mom never let me drink soda. Then, I felt woozy, like I couldn't think straight. And they did...something to me. It hurt a lot, but I don't remember what it was. And then there was so much blood and I'd never felt so much revulsion in my entire life." He shrugged one shoulder like a kid. He put his feet on the glass coffee table next to his book of Andy Warhol prints. "That's it. I mean, it was a dream, but parts of it felt so real. Nothing like that's ever happened to me though"

"Kids, terror, abuse. Sounds like you might be empathizing too much with our victims. Are you sure you don't need to step back from the case?" He looked at her like she had just shot his dog.

"No," he said vehemently. "I don't think it's that, but I don't know what else it could be." He growled, frustrated, then took a breath to calm himself. "Look, I promise to come to you if I have any more problems."

"Okay," she said evenly. She took his hand. "I know I don't say the words a lot, but I do love you. I just want you to be safe and healthy." He relaxed his shoulders.

"I know, I love you too."

Just then, Sara's cell phone vibrated on the end table. She reached over Greg to answer it. The screen read GRISSOM.

"Hey, Gris, what's up?"

"Sara, I need you to get over to the lab. We have important evidence coming in on a 419 that needs to be processed."

"Sure, did you ID the vic?"

"You remember our guy that got off on a technicality a few weeks ago?"

"Mark Engels, sure, how could I forget? Wait. You're lying. _He's _our vic?"

"Yep. See you soon. Hey, is Greg there? Can you bring him too please?"

"Yeah, fine," she answered distractedly looking over at Greg who was now also on his cell phone. She winced when she realized her mistake. There was silence on the other end of the phone before Grissom said, "Thanks." The line went dead. Well, shit.

Meanwhile, Greg answered his phone which had rung right after Sara's. He frowned at the New York area code.

"Sanders here."

"Is this Mr. Greg Sanders, formerly of 1515 West 66th, Jackson, New York?"

"The one and only." Greg was suspicious now.

"This is Detective Buzzano of the NYPD. I wanted to inform you that we're reopening your case after analyzing DNA evidence that positively identifies two of your four assailants."

"You're going to have to be more specific than that." Greg said. "I have 16 active investigations in various stages of analysis and hundreds more that have since been closed."

"What are you talking about?" The Detective sounded genuinely confused.

"Well, I'm a CSI, and before that I was a DNA technician for 8 years. I assumed you were referring to one of my cases. Though I'm confused about what that has to do with me living in New York."

"No, Mr. Sanders. I'm sorry for the confusion." Buzzano's voice was less gruff now, gentle even, his Bronx accent making him sound like everybody's favorite uncle. "I was referring to _your _case. You know, from when you were attacked. You were 8 years old, the file says."

"I, I'm sorry. Can I call you back? I was just called out on assignment." Greg reached for his notebook, to take down the Buzzano's number.

Greg's heart was pounding in his chest again. _Case? What Case? What was Buzzano talking about?_

A/N: Wow, now that was an intense chapter. I hope you liked it. I'm on the edge of my own seat, and I'm the author. Seriously people. Review. )


	7. 24 Hours

Title: The Unburdening

Author: subobscura

See first chapter for complete headers.

Chapitre 7: 24 Hours

A/N: Thank you for the amazing reviews ladies and gents. I guess Ms. Piggy is safe. For now. You didn't really think I was going to kill off one of our lovely CSI's did you? A few things. The chapter title comes from the song called '24 hours' by The Sounds, an awesome neo-80's chick band from Sweden. I have no idea if they're huge with kids these days because I don't listen to the radio, so I'm plugging them because I love their stuff. A big welcome back to **Tigerbutterflied**, who has decided to grace us with her precence. )

"Who was that," Sara asked as Greg hung up his phone.

He glanced back at her as he was heading towards his bedroom. "Oh, just someone from New York calling to ask about one of my cases." Technically it wasn't a lie, although Greg hoped the fact that he was stretching the truth didn't show on his face.

Sara noticed his demeanor was off, but chose not to comment on it. Greg had been out of sorts since he woke up, in fact, had been a little off key for the past couple of weeks. She had chalked it up to the case, and was still willing to go with that explanation.

She nodded, then said, "That was Grissom," holding up her phone. "Mark Engels is dead, but I didn't get the details." Greg's eyebrows rose at this.

"I guess that means we're headed to the lab. We need to find time to visit those scenes though. I know it hasn't rained in three months, but that could change any time." Sara nodded.

"Yeah, for now, Engels is priority one, all hands on deck. I think Grissom is worried that we may have a vigilante on our hands."

"If there is, I don't necessarily blame the guy. Engels raped and murdered five 12 year old boys. Closed casket funerals for all of them."

"Yeah Greg. I know that, and you know that, and so do Brass, Nick, and Grissom. Nonetheless, we can't focus on how he lived his life, but only on how he died. His death may have been just, but it wasn't justice."

Greg's shoulders drooped. "Well, I'm gonna go take a shower real quick. I feel like crap. No, wait, you go first. You take longer."

"That is such a lie Greg. Your hair always takes like twenty minutes."

"Please woman. You always straighten yours, which takes forever. I'll just do mine in the car."

"Fine, whatever." She waved him off as she walked towards the bedroom, untying the sash of her robe. Sadie slipped in behind her before she shut the door.

Greg flopped on the couch, throwing one arm over his eyes. All he wanted to do was sleep and not think about the world rushing around him. Things had finally been getting on track with his job and with Sara, and then Mark Engels and the John Doe case had come up. He hadn't been directly involved with the Engels case, really. He just analyzed the hair and fiber evidence after Hodges had processed it. But it was a grisly case that had affected them all. And this John Doe case bothered him on a subterranean level. Now it was even worming its way into his subconscious.

And what was this about his own case? Four assailants? To his knowledge, he'd never even stepped foot inside a PD until his civics field trip in 8th grade, and then again when he'd applied for the internship back in New York. Something seemed very off-kilter, and Greg did not like that it was eluding his understanding. It was an uncommon and uncomfortable feeling. He flipped open his phone, and dialed home. It was time to get information direct from the source. Moren would probably just say that they had him confused with someone else, anyway, he was certain. Three rings, and his mother picked up the phone with a casual, "Hey sweetie, what's up?"

Greg switched to Norwegian. It wasn't often that he got to use what he considered his native tongue. That, and he knew Sara couldn't understand him if she overheard any part of their conversation.

"Hei, hvordan da du er alltid hjem?" _Hey, how come you're always home?_

"Hvorfor did du ringe, Gregers?" _Why did you call, Greg?_

"Ikke lykkelig over høre fra meg, moder?" _Not happy to hear from me, mother?_

"Ja , som du vet JEG er." _Yes, you know I am._

"Hvor er Papa Olaf ?" _How's Papa Olaf?_

"Fint , fint. Han er glede seg over kilden vær og gjete å hans fuglene." _Good, good. He's enjoying the spring weather and tending to his birds._

"Lytte. JEG som ikke har mange tid. JEG savnet å anmode du om en telefon ringe JEG fikk dags dato. Fra det NYPD , en Oppdager Buzzano. Han savnet å fortelle meg de var reopening meg rettssak. JEG fikk nei begrep hva han snakket om._ Listen. I don't have much time. I wanted to ask you about a phone call I got today. From the NYPD, a Detective Buzzano. He wanted to tell me they were reopening my case. I had no idea what he was talking about._

"Oh God. JEG ha blitt venter for denne hente 23 år." _Oh God. I've been waiting for this call for 23 years._

"Så det er sant , det er et eller annet å denne?" _So it's true, there's something to this?_

"Gregers , som du vet JEG elske du av hele mitt hjerte. Istedet for forteller du herom , JEG skal sende du et eller annet. Etter Dem ha lese gjennom den , du ville ha spørsmål." _Gregers, you know I love you with all my heart. Instead of telling you about this, I'm going to send you something overnight. After you've read through it, you'll have questions._

"Hvorfor kan ikke du fortelle meg nå?" _Why can't you tell me now?_

"Mene meg , sønnen. Det er en bedre kom igjen denne vei. Jeg ønsker JEG det kan tenkes der med du , bortsett fra Papa nødvendig meg. Denne er ikke et eller annet du skal få kjennskap om over telefonen." _Believe me, son. It's better this way. I wish I could be there with you, but Papa needs me. This is not something you should learn about over the phone._

Greg's stomach was a roiling mass of nerves. What could be so bad, its discovery entailed all of this secrecy? Hearing the shower switch off, he switched back to English. The hair dryer blasted on, signaling his turn in the bathroom.

"Mom, I have to go. I've been called early to the lab. Can you get the package sent there care of me, so the receptionist can sign for it?" He rattled off the address from rote memorization so she could write it down. "I'm not going to like this, am I?"

"No Gregers. You're not. But remember, me and your dad, and Papa Olaf and Nanna Aina have always loved you. We've always wanted the best for you."

"I know, Mom. Bye."

"Bye."

Greg really, really did not want to go to work today. He had a feeling more than one ugly revelation awaited him.

Sara, meanwhile, had been listening to the lyrical rise and fall of Greg's conversation with his mother through the thin walls of his cheap apartment. She didn't understand Norwegian, but she thought it sounded like singing. She hoped Greg might teach her someday. It would be cool to have their own secret language, and their kids would definitely have to learn as well. Wait. Hold the phone. Had she just thought about herself, Greg Sanders, and children, as in, biological offspring, in the same sentence? Holy cow. This being in love was driving her a little crazy. She made a face at herself in the mirror and turned on the hair dryer, missing the end of their conversation.

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They walked into Grissom's office expecting to get assignments for processing the evidence coming in from the Engels murder. Grissom, it seemed, had different ideas.

"Hey, Brass. Let me call you back. Sara and Greg just walked in."

"Sara, Greg, don't get too comfortable. Brass just called and said the scene is a mess. Sara, you and I are going to head over to the Bellagio. Our scene is in one of the hotel rooms there. Greg, there's a lot of blood evidence that's going to be coming in. I know you're not going to like this, but I want you back in DNA for this one. You're the best, and on this, any less won't do, but don't worry. We're not going to cut you out of the loop. We'll need all the fresh eyes we can get."

Greg, although a little huffy, took his assignment without complaint. He'd spent a whole year in the lab after his accident, so it wasn't like he couldn't handle it. He just didn't like it. Besides, he still had enormous respect for DNA. He had broken the case hundreds of times in his former profession, and he was happy to go back once in a while to keep up his skills.

"Alright, Sara. Let's go," said Grissom, reaching for his kit.

One last glance at Greg, and they were gone out into the wider, murderous world.

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In the car, Yo Yo Ma was playing a series of cello concertos in C. Sara sighed. Grissom's car, Grissom's music. It was a far cry from the Blondie, Ramones, and Raveonettes that she had gotten used to. She slid on her sunglasses against the rush hour glare and tried not to fall asleep in the heat that was collecting in the front seat. No matter how much you tried, spring in the Mojave meant hot cars. Grissom's silence wasn't helping.

"So, I'm only going to bring this up once." Grissom's voice came suddenly out of the stillness. His glacial gaze was steady on the bumper sticker ahead of them (WAR ≠ PEACE), his hands grasping the steering wheel so tightly, his knuckles were white.

Startled, Sara blinked a few times to get her bearings.

"You deserve better." He let this out on a quick exhale, like ripping off a bandaid.

"Excuse me?" Sara's blood pressure was beginning to rise. She decided to play ignorant for the moment. "Better what, Grissom? Better pay? Better hours?"

"Are you really going to make me say it out loud?"

"I think I should, because if I understand you correctly, and you'd better hope I'm confused, I'm about to be seriously pissed off." She had crossed her arms now.

"Don't take this the wrong way, Sara. I'm just trying to be a good friend. I just think that Greg and you," he paused. "Well, you don't strike me as the best match."

"Oh, you don't _even_ get to play this game with me anymore, Grissom. And you sure as hell don't get to pretend to be my friend after you've spent the last five years not talking to me."

"Greg is…"

"What, Grissom? What were you going to say? A flake? Is that what you were going to say? Because I can count on one hand the number of times he was late for work while I was field training him, and he had a good excuse every single time. Or were you going to call him incompetent? Disregard the fact that he's broken the case hundreds of times and not just in the lab. Disregard his natural insight. Where's all that praise you had for him ten minutes ago?"

"I have no complaints about his talent as a CSI. I was going to say he's childish."

"Child-_like_, Grissom. And there's a goddamn difference. Childlike means having enthusiasm about everything you do. It means finding novelty in everyday life. It means not losing the ability to play. Childish on the other hand means manipulating people's emotions without regard to how they might feel. It means getting jealous when someone steals a toy you weren't even playing with. Wow, that sounds like someone else I know," she finished with a razor sharp sarcastic edge in her tone.

"That's not fair, Sara."

"Oh isn't it though? You know what isn't fair Griss? You bringing this up years after you found out how I felt. You don't even have plausible deniability about that. I told you three years ago that when you figured out what to do, it might be too late. Well, guess what? It is too late."

"But, you want maturity. Elegance. Beauty." He parked the SUV in front of the casino.

Sara snorted. "No, Grissom, that's what you _think_ I want. Besides, Greg, ironically, is one of the most mature people I've met. He's honest, open emotionally, and without guile. Not qualities that I would associate with you, I might add. Now, Dr. Grissom." She spat out his name and title like a curse. "If you'll excuse me. Please, butt the fuck out of my life. I have a scene to help process." She slammed the passenger door and grabbed her kit from the back before striding through the front doors, a hard set to her jaw. Grissom sat there immobile, pinned in place by her words. He had never felt so eviscerated by a conversation, and worse, he knew that her accusations were accurate. Yo Yo Ma played on, unaware of the carnage that had just been wrecked inside the cab.

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A/N: Ah yes, constant readers. I think that's a good place to stop for today. This is going to be longer than anticipated, I can tell. I was expecting three more scenes out of this chapter. Oh well, this provides good emotional setup. Teasers for the next chapter- imagine funky scenes and a guy's deep voice-over. Is it wrong to murder a murderer- Mark Engels death is investigated with an appearance by all of our favorite CSI's. Greg gets his package, and his past is revealed. Sara finds out too and wonders if he's been lying to her. Grissom steers the ship, but fails to see the looming ice-burg. We'll also find out more about our A case- the John Doe murderer. Dun dun dun. Reviews make the chapters come faster.

General notes: Don't read unless you want the musings of a CSI fanatic.

So I've been watching season 3 on DVD and I noticed a few things. First, I realized where Quentin Tarantino got his germ of an idea for Grave Danger. In the episode "Snuff," Nick processes a metal tool box in which the body of a man is primarily decomposed by fire ants. All I could think was Nick, box, ants. Plus, the A case in that ep was about film, so I was like, yeah, GD was totally QT's homage to that ep and CSI. I know this has probably been discussed before, but I was thrilled to find that. Also, when I rewatched "Play With Fire," I realized that if you listen closely, the paramedics say that Greg has partial to full thickness burns on his back and neck. So it's confirmed. The evidence never lies. )

"


	8. I'm Missing All the Things I Knew

Title: The Unburdening

Author: subobscura

See first chapter for full headers.

A/N: Some short notes. The chapter title is from a song by the name "Three" from Massive Attack, which is a groovy electronica-type group (but good). I'll be honest and say that I've put off writing this chapter as long as the story would allow. It's very dark, and I had deep, deep reservations about the subject matter right up until I started typing. Please be aware that my intention is not to offend. This is extremely personal to me, because something similar happened to my best friend from high school. I've tried to be as factual as possible concerning the physical and emotional fallout, as well as the forensics involved. Just so you know this isn't some random plot device to inflict angst…I am indebted to all of you, and I do hope you continue to read. A WARNING: The rest of this story will explore the ramifications of violence, rape, terror, and murder in graphic detail. Please don't read this if it will hurt you or if you offend easily. I can promise right now that there will be no canon character death. Reviews are always welcome.

Chapter 8: I'm Missing All the Things I knew

"Sometimes, I just don't know what to say," Sara started as she surveyed the hotel room. There were few surfaces that were not in some way spattered with blood. Mark Engels lay in situ on the bed, dead in a thick, congealing pool of his own blood. His eyes were squeezed shut, even in death, and his hands were claws in the bedspread. He had fought death to the end.

"How about excessive?" responded Catherine from the corner where she was examining blood drops with a micrometer.

"Or angry," said Grissom from his position in the doorway where he had come up behind Sara. She chuffed low in her throat, but made no argument. Whatever else one could say about Sara, you could never accuse her of being unprofessional. She moved further into the room.

"What the hell happened here?"

"That's why they put the 'I' in CSI," called Nick from the bathroom.

She rolled her eyes, and turned towards Catherine, who was the primary on the scene. "So what can I do?"

Catherine sighed. "Start numbering and photographing the blood evidence. This is going to take forever."

Sara put on some booties from her kit and hefted her gear to the growing pile in one of the few seemingly undamaged corners of the room.

"What's been done already?"

"Take your pick, we just finished our preliminary run-though."

Sara chose to start by the door, where the volume of blood was the greatest.

"We've got medium velocity arterial gushing here by the door, followed by arterial spurts. The blood is dried and clotted already. Do we have an estimated TOD?"

"Vic ordered room service at 8:30AM and was discovered by housekeeping at noon. The smell was getting complaints from neighbors."

"No doubt," said Warrick who was lifting prints by the window. The victim had evacuated his bowels and bladder upon dying and the smell of shit and the taste of iron were heavy and thick and nauseating.

Catherine continued, "So we have a three and a half hour window there. We'll know more when David decides to grace us with his presence. "

Grissom meanwhile was in the middle of the room staring intently, trying to get a handle on the scene. "Catherine, have you sent anybody to review the video surveillance yet?"

"Not yet. May be useful though. We're not in murder central, so the tapes should provide something probative."

"I think I'll go do that," Gil said. Catherine raised her eyebrows. It was not like the nightshift supervisor to leave the primary scene, even when he wasn't running it.

"What bug crawled up his ass?" she asked the room.

"Oh, the usual," Sara said in an offhand manner, which was explanatory of nothing. "So from the arterial spray, I'd say the victim," she paused, not comfortable calling a child rapist and murderer a victim. "The victim," she continued, "was surprised at the door, stabbed or shot in the throat, and staggered to the bed where he bled out." She stared 'round again. "Stabbed definitely. You can see the cast off from the fatal wound. Plus there are other cast offs there, there, there, and," she looked up to the ceiling. "There."

"Whoever killed this guy had a lot of rage. A lot of rage," said Warrick, turning around to take in the gruesome scene.

"Not surprising considering the way he lived his life," said Nick with a hard glint in his eye. He walked out of the bathroom holding an evidence bag. "Found the murder weapon dropped in the trash can." He held up a large hunting knife. "Hopefully his hand slipped on the guard, and we can get some DNA of our killer off this puppy." Warrick whistled. The knife was huge, almost a foot and a half total with a foot long blade designed to slice flesh with ease.

"There's no way our killer walked out of here without blood all over him," Sara said.

"'Fraid so," said Nick. "Found blood in the drain. I think our guy washed up before he left. He also left his clothes, covered in the vic's blood. Apparently he hasn't heard of DNA."

"Or he doesn't care," said Warrick. "I got a couple of fat prints off the window sill, plus some blond hairs with skin tags stuck in some blood."

"Meaning they were lost after the blood was deposited," said Sara. "And Mark Engels isn't blond. Between that and the epithelials, our killer is all over this room."

"Unless housekeeping doesn't do their job," Warrick said with an ominous tone. "This is a hotel room after all. There's probably going to be all kinds of misleading evidence." Sara frowned. He had a point.

"Neighbors didn't hear a thing," said Brass, walking into the room unannounced. He smirked. "Said they were sleeping, of course." He made a glug, glug motion with his hand. "They fairly reeked of booze. I'm going to go talk to management and housekeeping, see if I can find out how someone goes on a murderous rampage without anyone noticing."

"Uh, guys," said Catherine. "We have a problem." She was staring at the dresser. They crowded around to look over her shoulder. There were words crudely etched into the wood. They said:

OH DEATH, WHERE IS THY STING? OH GRAVE, WHERE IS THY VICTORY?

The irony was choking them all. Mark Engels had battled death and lost.

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Greg was puttering around his old lab cleaning up. The place had gone to hell since he had relinquished control once and for all. It wasn't so much that Wendy was bad at her job, because he wouldn't have approved her hire if she was. It was just that she was new and hadn't quite figured out how to run things the way he thought they should be.

Everyone had marveled at his efficiency when he was king. It's not that he was fast, it was that he put in a lot more time than people realized. He skipped breaks, meals, came in early and stayed late. He also kept everything meticulously organized, had things that could be set up beforehand always ready and on hand, and made sure to have a month's worth of critical supplies stocked up. He felt a responsibility to the victims to perform his job to his highest standards, and ran his lab accordingly. Wendy's best wasn't good enough, in his opinion, but he wasn't about to complain. Yet.

That was why he was annoyed when he had to pour gels, because there were only two left when he looked in the 'fridge. This was a problem easily solved and generally delegated to a new tech. He wasn't conceited, but normally someone of his experience wouldn't have to worry about these things. And anyway, who the hell kept agar under the sink? Didn't they know that the sink leaked, and would cause a bloody mess if someone accidentally left the lid off, not to mention the wasted supplies? Irked, he tried to shrug his irritation off.

He got busy helping Wendy catch up on the two day lag she was working under, all the while introducing her to Manic Attack, Phish, and some of his other favorite down-slow bands. He was trying to mellow out without falling asleep. Soon he was back in the groove, tunelessly humming away to 'Safe from Harm.'

His cell phone rang, shattering his Zen.

"Sanders," he growled into the microphone, voice muffled by his mask. He glanced at the clock, realizing he had worked right through shift. It was now 10 in the morning.

"Stop sulking." Her silky voice came through the phone, and his shoulders relaxed instantly.

"Hey," he said, smiling slightly. He started readying primers to put in the DNA samples he had extracted from the blood evidence on the perp's clothing and the knife. The hands free ear-piece and microphone had been genius. "I'm not sulking. I was just surprised. You broke my concentration." He sighed dramatically. "I guess I can forgive you. You just getting off the scene?"

"Yeah, we processed for 16 straight hours. My back is killing me and I'm in dire need of a shower. I was going to head out to the John Doe scenes before I head home. I was calling to ask if you want to join me."

"No can do. I'm just about ready to put the first batch from the Engels murder through the PCR. Then I have to run the gels, blot them, and scan the results into CODIS. I'm thinking four more hours." He felt more tired at the thought. That was five hours into a quadruple.

"Alright." He could hear her pout. "I'll miss my partner though."

"Don't get mushy, Sidle. I happen to like my kick ass girlfriend."

"Not so loud, Greg."

"Please. I'm in here all by my lonesome. Days took an early lunch and Wendy went home hours ago. I have _some_ tact, miniscule though it may be."

"Well, apparently I don't. Grissom and I had a huge fight on our way to the casino."

"About _moi_?"

"Yeah." She sounded dejected. "I kind of accidentally let it slip that we're together."

"Do I have anything to worry about?"

"Not on my end, Greggo. I have no idea about Grissom. I'm guessing he'll just act cold and distant."

"So no different than usual."

"Right."

"Alright, hon, duty calls." His voice was soft. "What time are you going to be home?"

"Probably around 4. I want to go to my apartment, water my plants, get some clothes, some stuff for Sadie. Maybe run some errands, grab a nap."

"Sara, you can bring your plants over. You and your cat have already made yourselves at home."

"Really?"

"Yes, really. The more the merrier." He was chuckling at her.

"Hang on," she said. On the other end, she lifted her phone away from her ear and did a little happy dance. "Okay, I'm back," she said, looking over her shoulder to make sure no one had seen. The young officer on scene coughed and tried to look bored.

"Oooh, you shake your groove thing," said Greg.

"What, how did you know?" asked Sara.

"You just told me," he smirked.

"Damn you," she said. "Get out of my head."

"Sara," he said, growing serious. "Make sure you take an officer with you. I don't like the idea of you going to that section of town at all, let alone by yourself."

"Don't go all caveman on me, Greg. I'll be fine."

"Sara, I'm serious."

"I know, I know. I'll be safe I promise. Officer Case and I will have a great time looking for two month old trace."

"Thanks. Alright, I'll see you later."

"Bye."

Greg clicked off his phone, and picked up his pipette, dialing the instrument to 10 microliters.

Just then, Judy walked in carrying a rather heavy looking Fed Ex box. "Hey, Greg," she said. "This just came for you overnight from California. I brought it right away in case anything needs to be refrigerated."

Greg stiffened. In all the excitement, he had almost forgotten about his mother's promised package. "Thanks, Judy. Just leave it over by the desk if you please," he said, turning around to give her one of his trademark grins. She blushed and mumbled something before scurrying out. He loved teasing her gently, even though he knew she had a bit of a crush on him. He tried not to lead her on though. Losing the grin as soon as she disappeared from sight, he turned to stare at the package as though it contained a bomb, and not a bunch of papers like his Mom had implied.

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"Greg?" Sara called as she pushed open the door with her hip. She was loaded down with a bag over her shoulder, a fern in one hand and an aloe vera in the other. "Are you home?" She lowered her voice when she realized he was probably asleep after pulling 22 hours at the lab. The T-Bird was out front, meaning he had at least been here recently. She couldn't imagine he had enough energy to practice muai thai or go running. Sadie ran out from behind the couch and started curling herself through Sara's legs. She shrugged and went to put the plants down on the coffee table.

She walked to the bedroom expecting to see Greg sprawled across half the bed, naked as the day he was born. Instead, the room was dark and silent, the only light coming from his computer monitor. The bedcovers were undisturbed. She was a little unnerved now. If Greg was home, the apartment was never this quiet. He was antsy and energetic, with thoughts that ran a million miles an hour. He needed music or television or video games to calm him down after a long shift. She deposited her bag on the bed, and went to the kitchen to feed Sadie who was whining pitifully.

She happened to glance outside then, and noticed Greg was sitting on the balcony facing over the courtyard. She sighed, relieved. She opened a can of Mighty Cat for Sadie and grabbed a Molsen from the 'fridge.

Opening the sliding glass, she was careful not to let the cat out. She left the door open but closed the screen to air out the apartment. She dropped a kiss on the nape of his neck, but he didn't respond. Okay, he was acting really weird now.

She sat next to him in one of the plastic chairs that matched the fiberglass patio table. She noticed he was smoking and watching the kids below screaming and duking it out to see who the cannonball champion was, taking turns jumping into the complex's pool.

He lifted a shaking hand towards his mouth and took a deep drag on his cigarette, blowing out the smoke in fits and starts. He flicked ashes into a used soda can, cupping his hand so none would fly away in the desert wind and start a wildfire. He traced the condensation on the lip of his beer with his thumb. It was only a quarter empty. He looked hollow, used up.

Suddenly, he gestured with his trembling cigarette towards the kids. "I used to think I had that, you know?"

"Babe, what's wrong?" Sara asked, growing afraid. Greg was acting completely out of character. She moved to put her hand on his arm.

"Don't!" He yelled. He lowered his voice. "Just, just don't touch me right now."

"Okay," she said, keeping her voice steady and calm. "Just tell me what's going on." She was utterly confused. Not six hours ago they had a perfectly normal conversation. What on earth was going on in the kid's brain?

"It's just, I thought," he struggled for words. "I thought, everything was great. I had fun all the time, I had all these friends. Life was good, even if I didn't know much about how the world really worked. I was cool with that, with being the smart one. Turns out I wasn't so smart."

Suddenly he stood up, the legs of the chair scraping against the concrete. He stabbed out his cigarette with a vicious twist of his wrist.

"You know what? I can't, I can't be here right now. I need to go." He pulled open the screen door and grabbed his wallet off the bar.

"Greg wait!" she yelled, running after him. "Where are you going? Let me come with you. Please tell me what's wrong." She was pleading now, close to tears. She had never once seen Greg come close to being this upset.

"Please," he said, holding up a hand. "Not now. It's not you, Sara. Believe me, this is all my problem. I just have to be alone right now." He turned and opened the door, walking through without once meeting her eyes. It slammed in his wake, the click of the deadbolt highlighting his absence.

Sara, being a CSI, decided it was time to investigate her boyfriend's dramatic flight. She found the box sitting on the futon in the guest room.

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She had changed now and was sitting at the bar table, bracing her feet on the rungs of one of the pub stools. In front of her sat the file and a glass of merlot. Sadie was curled up on the other stool, unaware of the drama unfolding before her.

Late afternoon sun streamed through the kitchen windows, falling in slanting shadows on the balcony where only an hour ago, Greg had started falling apart.

Looking at the pile in front of her, Sara ran a finger across the label, typed on a typewriter and affixed with adhesive. SANDERS, GREGERS H. 011283-154SV. A police file then. A post-it was stuck on top;

_Gregers,_

_Here's the information I promised you. Remember we love you._

_Moren_

Technically, Greg's parents weren't supposed to have this, but in old cases, detectives retired. People could be paid off for information. She opened it just barely touching the edges, like it was a piece of evidence.

The top page was an initial scene report in chicken scratch.

_Victim found naked in alleyway by sales clerk. Clear evidence of sexual trauma. Transported immediately by ambulance to Our Lady of Mercy, critical condition, nonresponsive. Clothing and backpack found nearby identifies vic as male, Greg Sanders, 8 years old. CSI's on scene to collect evidence, transported to lab for analysis. Witnesses questioned. No one saw or heard anything._

She put her hand over her mouth. The next page was the report from the SART exam.

_Severe hematomas indicate forced penetration while victim was held down. Level 3 complete peri-anal lacerations required immediate surgical intervention with stitches totalling sixty and a reversible colostomy. Blood loss was severe, two units typed and crossed given during surgery. Bruising and severe swelling of the scrotum and penis. Admixture of blood and semen collected for analysis, but level of damage indicates more than one attacker. Hair and trace collected for analysis. Victim tested for sexually transmitted diseases, and given broad spectrum antibiotic. Results pending. Toxicology pending. _

Further down the page, an addendum dated three months later.

_Colostomy reversed. No permanent damage. _

She continued through the file, catching snatches of words through her growing horror.

_Gamma Hydroxy Butyric acid, 12.5mg/kg, 4 distinct unknown hair samples, parents ruled out, stomach contents soda and hotdog, patient unresponsive, no fingerprints, at least 2 blood types, no witnesses have stepped forward, patient released into parental care, case closed until better technology can aid the investigation, patient responsive, no memory of the attack, drugs impeded memory, confused about medical intervention, sullen, apathetic._

Beneath the reams of documents were photos and newspaper articles. The photos weren't crime scene photos, weren't even all that graphic. One was of a small, spiky haired boy lying in a hospital bed on his side, a cruel black bruise covering the dark moles on his face. The next was taken eye level with Greg in the same position, his solemn brown eyes pleading for understanding. Next to him was a tape player. Another picture was of a silver surfer backpack lying in an alleyway with notebooks and a Scooby-doo wallet spilling out. Sara could see the beginnings of Greg's distinctive 'G' from his signature in the childish cursive that he had written at the top of one page.

The newspaper articles were clipped neatly along the edges. One, from the A1 page screamed BOY, 8, RAPED AND LEFT FOR DEAD. Another from A6 read PARENTS DEMAND JUSTICE, PERPETRATORS GO UNPUNISHED. Finally, one from A28 read BOY'S RAPE INVESTIGATION CLOSED PENDING NEW EVIDENCE. All the news fit to print.

The last page in the file was the bill of sale for Moira and Jan Sander's Queens apartment.

Sara laid her head in her arms and wept at the injustice of it all.

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The key turned in the lock. Sara sat up straight and wiped at her eyes, her nose. She couldn't let Greg see her like this. She had to be strong for him. He opened the door, and stood outlined in a halo from the streetlights outside. His eyes were black. He looked towards the table, then at her with her red puffy eyes. The apartment was dark except for the light above the stove. Her glass of merlot sat untouched. The file was spread out on the table, the bar, the floor, incriminating her and laying Greg out bare and cold once again.

"So you know," he said with a loose gesture in her direction. She nodded. He came in and shut the door. His shoulders were slumped, his steps heavy. He shrugged once, and said. "I didn't know, Sara. I swear to God, I didn't know. I would have told you. You believe me, right?"

She nodded again, lacking words. She stood up and met him in the middle of the dark room, standing just out of reach. He reached for her, brought her to him, and she wrapped her arms around his waist, bringing her hands up to rest on his back. He put his head on her shoulder. They held each other for a long moment, listening to the other breathe. She felt his solidity, his life like never before, recognizing now that he was a gift that she had almost lost without even knowing. He leaned into her.

His weight, leant against her, became too heavy for her to bear. Gently, she lowered them both to their knees, and they clung together in the maddening storm that raged around them, tried to fight the waves together in a drowning sea.

His shoulders began shaking, and he wept openly into her breast, his breath hot on her skin. His tears wet her robe and took on the appearance of dark spilled blood. She held and comforted him with shushing noises telling him to let it out let it out let it out. She felt his grief keenly as her own, for it was an emotion, an experience with which she was intimately familiar; the realization the world was no longer what you believed it to be, that some part of you was irreparably broken. She wept with him for their loss of innocence. Not one part of their lives went untouched by unspeakable evil.

"Oh God, Sara," he let out on a broken sob. "What am I going to do? Oh God. Oh God. I was, I was." He couldn't even say it. "I was just a kid, a little kid. Those guys. They attacked me. Oh god. They raped me. I was raped four times and left to die." She ran her hands through his hair while he wept inconsolably. "How could I not know?"

He curled in on himself, clinging to her, his gentle hands and arms like a vice. The waves crashed on their battered shores.

A/N: Well, this was a terrible chapter to research and write. I mean, dreadful. I had no idea the story was taking me here when we started so blame the muse. I tried to do the subject justice, really I did. There is nothing light, or amusing, or remotely arousing about rape. Linds and captnobvious, even though you don't know it, this story is for you. Next chapter, Greg and Sara have to figure out how to move forward. Plus, the world of crime in Sin City refuses to take a vacation.


	9. Foreign Oleander

The Unburdening

Author: subobscura

See first chapter for full headers.

A/N: So yeah, I did an awful thing to Greg. And now we need to find out if time heals all wounds. Or if it only serves as an inadequate bandage. Thank you for the lovely reviews. Once I get this chapter down, I'm going to go and respond to all of them. No musical inspiration this time around, but if you must know, at this very moment I'm listening to AFI's 'Sing the Sorrow.' The chapter title is courtesy of Dr. Stuart Ware, perhaps the most charming man I've had the pleasure of meeting during college.

Chapter Neuf: Foreign Oleander

"_It has big white beautiful flowers, very showy. But you have to be careful, the leaves are deadly poisonous…that Oleander blooms now in a place that it cannot. And the stupid plant doesn't even know that it can't."_

-Dr. Ware

His breathing had calmed somewhat, but he still drew air in little fits and starts. Now that their moment of upheaval had passed, it was time to assess the damage and determine if the effort of rebuilding was worth the cost.

"Greg," she whispered into his hair. "We have to move. We can't stay here forever."

"Yeah," he replied. He chuffed out what would never pass as a laugh. "My knees are killing me."

Hope rose and fluttered inside of her. Her Greg Sanders still existed somewhere inside of this man, if he could still joke at this, his lowest moment.

He rose and gave her a hand up so that she stood beside him. He scrubbed a hand over his face, pausing to rub at his five o'clock shadow. "God, I feel terrible. I don't even know where to start. I feel so unutterably filthy. What do I do?" He turned to her, looking for answers that she wasn't sure she could give.

"How long has it been since you've had a shower?" she asked even though she knew that wasn't what he meant.

"I don't know. Sometime yesterday." He strained to remember the previous day, like it had happened years ago. "Before we went in to work."

"Greg, will you trust me to take care you?"

Greg wanted to be alone, and he wanted to scream and rage, and he wanted to cling to her and never let go. He wanted to call his mother and demand answers and he wanted to feel like his thoughts were his own again, that his body was his own again, and not that he had stepped into some alternate dimension where everything had tilted 45 degrees off-center. In that moment, he decided that what he really wanted was to let someone else do the thinking for a while.

"Okay."

Sara looked at him and saw not her partner or her best friend or her lover, but a man who needed reassurance and care, like a tender shoot that had found itself in foreign and hostile soils. She took him by the hand and led him to the bathroom. She left him standing there under the harsh fluorescents lit over the sink.

She retrieved the softest towel from the linen closet, an orange and white striped one that reminded her inexplicably of Nemo, the little fish they had watched last week battle his way home against all odds. She fought back tears as she fingered the terry cloth. She wondered if Greg would ever find his way home again.

Returning to the bathroom, she found that he was sitting on the toilet seat with his head propped in his hands staring into space. He barely moved his eyes when she walked back into the room. She placed the towel and washcloth on the counter, and moved to the tub. She turned on the water, made it a little hotter than she normally would have liked it. It splashed and ran over her hands, making a pooling roaring sound in the ceramic basin. She put the stopper in, and watched as the water swirled in angry eddies. Then she went under the sink and pulled out the blue ocean breeze bath salts she had bought for their one month anniversary.

_They had shared the cramped tub, her sitting between his legs running the stopper's chain between her toes. He had reached around her and let her sip from their glass of Cabernet, before he pulled something out from behind the toilet. She was utterly unsurprised to see that he had a rubber ducky, which let out a squeak of protest when he squeezed it. He threw it and it plopped into the water. She turned around to look at him and he was wearing that shit-eating grin that she loved. She laughed and turned fully, feeling the slide of their bodies together in the heated and oily water. She kissed him, tasting the sting of red wine, and she felt little rivulets of water running down his face and throat. Candlelight flickered over their pale, thin bodies…_

Had that only been a week ago? She felt the loss of their happiness keenly, mourning what had been so briefly theirs. She straightened her shoulders, and poured in some of the salts, telling herself that now was not the time for her grief.

"Greg," she said. "It's important to take care of yourself, especially in times like these." She looked back at him, not really expecting a response. He was watching her with dark eyes. "You have a tough road to walk, and sometimes the effort to get out of bed or to lift the fork from your plate to your mouth will seem like it's too much. And that's okay. That's normal. Just remember, even though you don't believe it right now, it does get better." The tub was almost full now, so she turned off the water and watched the steam rise in twisting tendrils.

She removed her loofa and hershower poof. Greg would scrub himself raw when he got in the water, and she was willing to allow that, but she was not willing to allow him to hurt himself. She turned to him, and motioned for him to stand. He did, and she started unbuttoning his black shirt, then rolling down the cuffs. He shuddered when she touched him. She stared at his smooth unmarred chest. When she turned him so she could remove his shirt, she looked at the twisting web of scars from the explosion, now faded with time. He had skin grafts and plastic surgery, but he would be marked forever. She placed a hand over them, feeling the thrum of his heart and breathing under her palm.

"Um," he cleared his throat. "Can I, can I have some privacy?" He paused. "Please?"

She tried not to be hurt, she really did, but they had made love just yesterday morning and now his beautiful body was as remote and off-limits as it had ever been. Suddenly, she hated the men who did this to him with a passion so immediate, she could have killed them with no remorse, glorying in their spilt blood like a savage.

She paused, stilled. "Of course," she said. "I'll be right outside."

"You know," he said, stopping her before she walked out the door. "I keep expecting to look down and see bruises, feel pain. Like just because I've found out about it, the experience should be fresh. But it's not, it happened decades ago, and I'm only just now discovering it. It's just," he paused. "Weird," he finished lamely. His silence was her dismissal.

As she walked away from the closed door, she pretended not to hear him crying.

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An hour later, he emerged from the bedroom wearing a long sleeved black t-shirt and black track pants. The ends of his hair were curling from the damp, and his skin looked pink, but overall he looked more in control of himself. Sara stared at the clock. It was already 8. She had to be at work by midnight. Then she remembered that she wasn't on the schedule that night, and Grissom be damned, case be damned, she was going to take her night off just this once.

She had packed up the file, but left it sitting on the table. No matter how much she wanted to coddle him, Greg was a grown man, and if he wanted to look at it again, it was his right. She apparently had made the right decision, because Greg slid onto one of the stools and opened the folder without preamble. She stirred the pot of tortellini, fighting the grainy achy tiredness that had settled over her while Greg was soaking. He bypassed all of the documents and skipped straight to the photos, staring at one in particular.

"I remember this," he said suddenly, holding up the picture of his backpack so she could see in the kitchen. He laid it down and ran his fingers over it, almost reverently. "I used to love the Silver Surfer. I always wanted to ride the galactic waves like him." He smiled wistfully. "I settled for the more terrestrial version, I suppose."

"You still fight for justice though," Sara said.

"What can I say? I guess I imprinted on the guy." He sighed. "This is somewhere in an evidence vault most likely."

"Probably," Sara agreed. "Is that all you remember?" she asked carefully. She was treading on dangerous ground now.

"Yeah," he said. "I think so. I mean, I don't even remember the hospital stay, the surgeries. Nothing. It's all a big blank. The last memory I have of New York is our empty apartment filled with boxes. I remember hiding in them." He shrugged. "That's it." He switched to the other chair so he could watch her while she dished up the pasta and sauce. "That dream I had. Maybe it was a memory." He propped his head on his arm as he leafed through the file.

"My mom called that synchronicity," Sara said. "When things all line up and happen at the same time. Your dreams, these cases, your case. She thought all things happen for a reason."

Greg lifted one shoulder in response. "I don't know what to think anymore. I think I'm going to reserve judgment until all the facts are in." He sighed again. "It says here they found a whopping dose of Georgia Home Boy in my system. I'll probably never remember everything that happened." He sounded despondent.

She set the plates of pasta on the table, then reached behind her and grabbed two glasses of iced tea. "Both are instant," she said. "Best I could come up with on short notice."

"I'm not that hungry."

"Please try," she said. "I'll bet you skipped lunch to finish those samples. God knows when you ate last."

"Alright," he said and grabbed his fork. He shoved a bite into his mouth in that totally rude way he had, and said "Sh'good," looking like a chipmunk. He reached for another bite almost immediately, and Sara was gratified to know that even in the face of tragedy, the physical demands of the body had to be heeded. He swallowed some tea in a gulp, and she reached for her fork.

"What I don't understand," Sara said between bites, "Is why your mom would send that now, after all this time. I would think she'd want to continue to let sleeping giants lie."

Greg looked like a deer caught in the headlights. "I asked her to, before I knew what it was."

"Why?"

He looked miserable. "Because a detective called and said they're reopening my case."

Sara suddenly understood. "The call from New York. I thought that was weird."

He nodded. "I thought it was a joke or a mistake or something. Imagine my surprise. You're not mad are you?" He looked so young and innocent and scared.

"No, Greg, I'm not mad. Although I do wish you'd told me." He looked relieved, and he started to eat again.

"I won't keep anything else from you, I promise."

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Later, she called Grissom and left a terse message on his voicemail at the lab. She left the bare minimum of information, stating only that she and Greg were taking the night off, her because she was scheduled and Greg because he was sick. He would be a liability to the evidence, she explained, and really that wasn't far from the truth. Greg brooked no argument, instead choosing to lie down on the couch and flip through channels at that rapid guy speed that annoyed Sara.

She sat on the edge of the couch next to him and slid a white pill and a glass of water towards him.

"What's that?" he asked.

"A sleeping pill," she said. She thought he would argue, but he merely swallowed it before gulping down half the glass of water. He must have been exhausted to resort to medication, she thought.

"Come here and lay with me," he asked. She nearly wept with relief. He wasn't going to hold her at arm's length through this ordeal. She cuddled next to him, before pulling the white chenille throw over them. He wrapped an arm around her midsection. He settled on "Signs," and for awhile they watched the movie in silence. Sadie hopped up to sleep near them on the back of the couch.

He broke the calm when he said, "I'm so scared that those guys are still out there somewhere. I mean, they could be anyone. I could see them every day and never notice the difference. And they could be laughing at me. Now that I'm remembering, they could try to come after me." His breaths were coming faster now.

"Oh God," he said. "What about AIDS? I got a blood transfusion in the eighties. The supply wasn't clean then, especially in New York. And I was raped by God knows who. I could be sick and not even know it. They didn't know to test for that then." He was on the edge of a full blown panic attack.

She turned quickly, taking him in her arms. "Greg, honey, breathe with me. You've got to calm down. That's it, breathe with me. In, out, in, out. It's okay, it's okay. Greggo, you're fine. Remember? They tested you for HIV when you wanted to be a lab tech and when you wanted to be a CSI. Standard procedure remember? You came back negative. Anything would have showed up then. Plus the dormancy period doesn't last this long. If you want to get retested for peace of mind, we'll do that first thing tomorrow morning, but for now, let's just be cool."

He nodded, squeezing his eyes shut tight. "Shit, I feel like such a wuss. Am I always going to be this scared?"

She stroked his hair. "No baby, you're not. This'll pass. We'll figure everything out, you'll see." She continued, a little hesitantly. "You know, Greg, there are people on the team that can help you out." She looked down, then back up into his wide brown eyes. "Nick and I, we can help you. We understand."

"How can you possibly understand," he said bitterly.

"Okay, I'll allow that your circumstances are a little unusual. But me and Nick, we know. We _know_." She emphasized the last word to get at her meaning. His eyes widened, and he looked down blinking away tears.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"It's in the past for both of us. We grew up to have productive lives. I just wanted you to know that you're not alone." She turned back to face the screen, and his arm was around her again.

"Thanks," he said.

They fell asleep listening to the reverend exhort his son to breathe, please, baby, breathe.

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The shrill bleat of the telephone woke Sara at 7 the next morning. From its angry tone, she could already tell Grissom was on the other end, righteously angry that two of his CSI's had bailed in the middle of a case.

She picked up the handheld and moved to answer in the bedroom so Greg could sleep some more.

"Sidle," she said, her mouth drawn down in a frown.

"Sara, you and Greg better have a damn good explanation for skipping out in the middle of a case. This isn't high school, you know. You can't just cut class to make out-"

"Shut up, Grissom." She interrupted him before he could piss her off anymore.

"Excuse me? You are way out of line CSI Sidle-"

"No, Grissom. You're out of line. I called last night, after just having pulled a quadruple by the way. I explained what was going on. Greg's sick, he really can't work right now. And I was scheduled the night off, so I took it."

"You're on call 24 hours a day, 7 days a week."

"Grissom, has Greg gone over his sick leave?"

"No."

"And how much overtime have I clocked this month?"

"More than 20 hours."

"Then I suggest you take this up with Ecklie. And if you ever imply that I'm slacking on my job because of my relationship with Greg again, you'll be looking for a new night-shift CSI." Her voice was frigid.

"Sara," Greg said from behind her. "Let me talk to him." Sara had her reservations, but she handed him the phone. "Grissom, I have to talk to you about something." He walked out of the bedroom and shut the door.

Sara sat at the computer and checked her email, made savage clicks on links on the CNN homepage without really reading the headlines. Finally, she got up and threw on some clothes. She pulled her hair back severely without straightening it. She stepped out of the room just as Greg was clicking off the phone.

"I'm going to go in and see if I can calm the savage beast," she said. He nodded.

"Take these with you," he said, handing her the photos of him in the hospital, his scene report, and the first page of his SART exam. He gestured down at his pajamas. "I'm not really fit to be seen right now."

"Greg, are you sure?"

"I don't want the whole lab to know, and I definitely don't want Grissom on my case, but he deserves to know what's going on." He was being much more reasonable about this than she would in the same position. "I'm a liability on these cases. If this ever comes out in cross, any evidence I collected is suspect."

"Greg, that's not true."

"How do you know?" he asked. "How can you possibly know when I'm not even sure myself that I can be totally unbiased now?"

CRIMESCENEDONOTCROSSCRIMESCENEDONOTCROSSCRIMESCENEDONOT

Sara walked down the hallway clutching the evidence of Greg's violation so tightly, the papers and photos wrinkled in her hand. People moved out of her way, seeing her long stride and intense stare, immediately recognizing that the Sara Sidle of old had made an unexpected return. She scowled at everyone she passed.

She strode into Grissom's office without knocking and slammed the door. Grissom was on the phone, but told whoever he was talking to that he would call them back.

He settled his gaze on her, steady, knowing that he would ultimately win this fight. He was the boss after all, and he just _knew_ they had played hooky. He was unnerved however when Sara didn't back down, didn't look guilty in the least. She had an angry fire burning behind her eyes. She shoved some papers at him across his desk.

"This is why we couldn't come in last night." He refused to look at them, to hear her excuses.

She sat in the chair in front of his desk and crossed her arms. "I'll wait."

He sighed. Fine. He would play it her way. He picked up the first page and scanned the words, startling a little when Greg's name jumped out of the scrawl. He went back to read it a second and a third time. Then he looked at the results from Greg's rape kit and the photos.

"He just found out yesterday," she said in an eerily quiet voice. "He doesn't remember anything, and he needed me more than the lab did. There was no way I was going to tell you over the phone." He felt physically ill. To think he had accused them of blowing off work, when really…no, it didn't bear thinking about now.

"Sara, I'm so sorry. I never would have bothered you guys if I had any idea. Please understand, I just," she cut him off with a wave of her hand.

"Don't Grissom. I'm really fucking tired of hearing all of your excuses. Now that I know how much you trust Greg's and my professionalism, we can all be happy campers and move on with our lives." He stared at the hard, angry woman across the desk from him. In just two conversations, he had destroyed a friendship with a few poorly chosen words. If he ever hoped to have another chance with her, he had killed it with his bare hands. He felt like he was bleeding out. They would be lucky if they could work civilly now. And Greg. Oh Greg. He couldn't even contemplate what he'd just learned yet.

"Sara, I know right now that you think I don't feel, that I don't care, but if it means anything at all, I'm so sorry. I had no right to act the way I did. As for all this," he waved his hands at the mountain of paperwork concerning the Engels case. "It can wait."

She stared at him, her eyes shining. "Yeah. Right now, I don't really give a shit who killed Mark Engels. Hell, they might even deserve a medal."

"Go home. Go be with him."

She nodded and stood to leave. "Sara?" He asked. She turned. "Did they ever find out who," he paused. "Who did this to him?"

"No," she said, and reached for the door.

"We will," Grissom said with quiet conviction.

She turned back and walked over to the desk to grab the disparate pieces of Greg's file. She sighed, and then looked him in the eyes. "No offense, Gil, but this is none of your concern. Greg doesn't want you or the lab involved anymore than you already are. He's letting the New York lab handle the analysis." She thinned her lips and rested a hand on his shoulder, the only peace offering she was willing to make. "We'll be back in tonight." Then she turned and walked out of his office, heading towards the parking lot.

Gil spent an hour staring at his hands, wondering how he had so completely fucked up his team in such a short amount of time.

A/N: Phew, and that's what you get for listening to Sevendust, reading **Wintertime's** fanfic, and then deciding now is the perfect time to update.


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